


BLACKOUT

by SalamanderInk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Academia, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Alternate Universe - Victorian, BAMF Loki (Marvel), BAMF Tony Stark, Bondage, Dom Loki (Marvel), Dom Tony Stark, Evil Odin (Marvel), Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, FrostIron Bingo 2019, Hurt/Comfort, Intersex Loki (Marvel), Jotunheim Won the War, Labyrinth References, Laufey (Marvel)'s Good Parenting, Limmericks, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, M/M, Negotiation Kink, Self-Harm, Sensation Play, Sex Magic, Vengeful Tony, Wild Hunt, Worship, actual god loki, flyting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 77,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23827750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalamanderInk/pseuds/SalamanderInk
Summary: There's a moment in everyone's life, a turning point where everything that could be and everything that should be takes shape and becomes real.For Prince Loki of Jotunheim, with a heart cursed to ice, that moment comes when he first meets Lord Anthony Stark of Midgard.
Relationships: Laufey & Loki (Marvel), Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 284
Kudos: 328





	1. B1- Trope: Evil Gloating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuietCanadian9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietCanadian9/gifts), [NamelesslyNightlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/gifts).



> THIS IS MY MAGNUS OPUS  
> currently, my longest work to date. It was done for the Frostiron Bingo Secret Challenge: every chapter is a bingo square, and this lill monster is my full Blackout. Yes that's also the title. No, I regret nothing.  
> Special thanks to Lou who helped me wrangle my limmericks (and chop off half those words); Sesil who did help me fluff up my Jotunheim market, Frosti and Quiet and Tay who did some really awesome cheer-reading.  
> Here's the result!  
> Enjoy

He had failed. The wily king, the blaze-eye, the wanderer turned tyrant had fallen. Moved by his hubris he had walked into a trap where the bait was too precious, too  _ vital _ to resist. 

In the end, one could say he was felled by his own cruelty, by his never ending greed. 

And he would not get away with it this time _.  _

Chained and bound, encased in a frozen block of ice resting in the middle of a magic-cancelling array, and with the whole temple humming menacingly around them, the Pilferer would not get away from the Jotnar guards encircling him. 

Laufey eyed him distrustfully anyway. Their prisoner was still dangerous, still scheming, his rotten brain looking for a way to get away, his one remaining eye narrowed. He was canny and cruel, and it wouldn’t do to underestimate him just because he was trapped and injured, with an empty eye socket still bleeding and his skin slowly darkening with frostbite.

Odin was defeated, but he would never accept it with grace, never face death with honor. There was too much hatred and greed in his heart, too much  _ spite. _

And as he looked back defiantly at the Jotun King standing before him, with that defiant smirk on his lips and the satisfied glint in his eyes, Laufey knew. The man was still dangerous, would  _ always  _ be dangerous so long as he lived. And maybe even beyond that. 

They just couldn’t keep someone with that much malevolence alive and around, especially not someone who was so charismatic and fanatically adored by his subjects.

Odin would die this day. 

But not yet, not nearly. 

Now they had to wait. The priests were coming, along with Farbauti, the Voice of Reason, the one allowed to pronounce death sentences. They would come either with terms of surrender or to give Odin peace before his execution, to hear his last wishes and witness his last words. 

It was the courtesy offered to kings, though Laufey was not certain the one eyed tyrant deserved as much. He was never so much a king but a butcher, laughing as he bathed in his people’s blood, savagely glad of the devastation left in his wake. 

His death was not one Laufey’s people would mourn.

The Jotun King did not move, watchful and patient as the glaciers, and just as treacherous and swift when the time called for it. 

His generals surrounded the perimeter, making certain no backup could reach the wily king. 

Odin would never leave this temple alive. 

“You believe that you won. You haven't . No matter what you do you will always lose.”

The downed king smirked and gloated. Laufey was familiar with a man’s last bluff, and unsurprised that this one would resort to mind games as a last resort. 

That was a secret his “honorable” warriors did not know: Odin’s best and most secret weapon was his poison tongue. 

And any beast was at its most vicious when cornered. 

Laufey expected all of that. He expected threats and lies and manipulations, ways to make this snake’s continued life and freedom seemingly necessary for them. 

He knew he could not bend, could not fall to it.

Could not answer, could not react. Giving a wordsmith an inch, they took an arm, your life, your homeland, your wife and first born child. 

So Laufey waited. His Queen was coming. The news of Odin’s defeat would reach the frontlines and the fight would stop, the council would come with a fair judgment. 

Odin would not die a martyr. He would have a trial. He would die fairly. 

As fairly as a trespasser could die anyway. 

It was more than the likes of him deserved. 

It was more than he would have granted them all. 

Thinking of what they had risked on that night, what would have happened had the Warmonger succeeded in his theft, Laufey could only feel abject horror. 

They would have all died, all the jotnar of the ice slowly withering and melting as their realms did, reaching extinction after millenia of agony. 

No one would have expected the Aesir king to be so foolish as to go himself to the heart of the enemy’s stronghold. Even if he was looking for the key to win the war, for a trump card, a way to crush Jotunheim for good, it was nonetheless the heart of their capital, the most protected building of the realm. 

It held their Heart, after all. 

The trap had been laid anyway, the defenses as strong as they could afford, and then, upon the advice of the twisted feelings in Farbauti’s guts, even stronger than that. 

And it had paid off. They had set traps of seidr and ice, weaving illusions and treachery into each sacred stone, drawing the magic from deep within the land, from the coldest winds of their casket, from the very blood of their veins. 

Laufey didn't like to think of what would have happened had they not taken those precautions. 

It would have been so much easier if the Casket could have simply been removed from the capital and hidden in the most obscure and dangerous parts of the land. And yet, they couldn’t have. 

The relic was echoing the beating heart of the realm, the strong and merciless winds of winter. Should it be moved without a competent mage—a  _ real _ High Mage and not simply a magic weaver—their climate would be thrown out of course for decades. 

Jotunheim couldn't afford the blow to its ecosystem. 

Not again. 

Mages were rare, and their last one died in battle a fortnight before, trying to save a small settlement of non combatants from the Aesir’s berserker rage. 

She had failed.

There had been many more for whom he’d had to witness the fall, brave souls and terrified ones, all of whom he’d failed to protect. 

And had he not listened to his Queen’s outlandish demands, he would have lost so much more. 

He would have had to watch babes and elders succumb one after the other, then the hunters as they took more and more risks to find ever decreasing prey, until none were left. And afterwards the ones left behind, starving over wilted crops. 

Their fading would be a slow process, a painful and humiliating one, living as wraiths in the shadow of their once great civilization, haunting the remains of their great cities, never again able to reach up. And as their King, Laufey would have felt the responsibility of that failure fall upon his shoulders. 

Praise Ymir such a tragedy did not come to pass. 

But more than that, there was another treasure within these walls that couldn’t yet be removed. One whose disappearance would indeed be a great blow to the land, but, and may his people forgive him, Jotunheim’s wellbeing was the furthest from his mind on that account. 

_ Laufey _ would break should harm befall  _ him _ . 

His babe, born from his own flesh, so tiny he had barely even known it was growing inside his own belly during this time of turmoil and tragedy. 

How incredible that one so small could be so precious. 

Mages were rare, and their last one had just fallen… but for this tiny little boy.

Laufey breathed deeply, letting the terror that had gripped his hearts settle. 

When he’d heard that Odin had breached the Temple… It didn’t bear thinking.

His son was there, safe and sound, happily bubbling at the Casket. His lines were starting to appear, slowly but that was only to be expected. Mageling babes needed more time to connect to the land, and they needed the Casket to guide their souls during that first journey. 

Seeing Odin there, soaked in blue blood, Laufey had truly feared the worst. He knew his son would have grown to become a threat to Asgard, but he’d hoped that Aesir had enough decency not to strike down a helpless babe. But hope was foolish during a war and Laufey could only crackle at the horror of the thought, of what could have been.

And he would continue to worry until he could take his child into the palm of his hand and press him against his warmth-heart , feeling the gentle squirming of tiny limbs and the welcoming pulse of his seidr. 

He couldn't do that yet, not as long as the threat stood there, canny and cruel. One could never trust Odin, even as bound as he was, even with Laufey towering over him with the rage of a mother beating through his warmth-heart and the keenness of a warrior in his cold-heart. 

And Odin was  _ laughing _ , the demented snake, his one eye creased with mirth and scorn as he started gloating. 

“Face it Laufey , you cannot kill me. You won't.”

Laufey tilted his head wondering what was going on in that senile head that made him think he would hesitate to skewer him on the spot as soon as he got the word. 

He would not ask of course, he knew better than to play in his hands like that. If there was one thing that the wily king was better at than war, it would be mind games. And Laufey refused to follow a script made by a man who would see them all dead at his feet. 

“Was it your son I saw sleeping on the Casket? I thought I could recognize that crown-like mark on his brow.”

Laufey froze for a split second before his red eyes narrowed, channeling the Helfire of his inner heart. The ice encasing the downed king constricted sharply, making him gasp in pain before that insufferable smile came back on his face, superior, taunting. 

“I would be careful if I were you, King Mongrel. I do hold your son’s life in my hands. You wouldn’t want anything  _ unfortunate _ to happen, would you?” 

Laufey felt cold. Jotnar never felt the cold, but at this moment, he felt both his hearts stop. The warmth that suffused his being flickered for an instant and something truly monstrous stirred in his breast. 

What he’d feared most had come to pass. Odin was threatening his babe. 

There was a chance the old man was bluffing. There was a chance that letting him talk would be walking straight into his hands and springing his trap. 

He clearly thought he had a trump card with this. That Laufey’s son was his way out of the mess he’d gotten himself into.

Odin would not leave this temple alive. 

But there was also a chance that he was speaking the truth. That he’d had nefarious designs from the start and that he’d somehow managed to curse his defenseless babe before he’d gotten trapped. 

Laufey would do anything to save his son. 

Showing hesitation, showing  _ weakness _ before the Gallows God was as good as bleeding dry in direshark infested waters. And yet, it was perhaps the only way he would manage to ferret out the truth of the matter. 

That was the issue with those men who thought themselves too smart. Let them think they’ve won already, and they will talk themselves into a blunder if they have the chance. Granted, Odin was old enough to have let go of most of the brashness of youth, and when handed enough rope, he was more likely to spin a complex web of lies to trap his enemies than simply hang himself, but therein laid his own weakness. When spinning a web based upon untruths, one only needed to find a single inconsistency in order to make the whole thing fall apart. 

That was all Laufey could hope for at the moment, the ability to divine truth from lies from the Deceiver’s own mouth. 

But he  _ would  _ do it. His son’s life depended on it. 

And so he faked shock and let a flicker of all true fear seep out through his eyes, the sharp blades he’d pushed through Odin’s armor retreating half an inch, just enough to leave a thousand pinpricks behind. Laufey didn’t allow his satisfaction at that to show. There was only enough space for one overblown ego in this room, and he firmly intended to let it swell to bursting. 

And indeed, the Aès took the bait. He crowed and crooned and jeered, thinking the rival king well and truly caught, assured of his superiority even bound and bleeding as he was. 

“It is good to know even beasts care about their young. But he is not just that, is he? He is quite the powerful little thing, even untrained as he is. So young, so malleable still.”

_ Malleable _ . The word sent chills down Laufey’s spine, his fingers hardening as the ice coated them. He let them. He could not react to the taunts, could not show his too real fear. He could not let it overcome his senses. Hearing Odin’s ploys laid out before him was horrifying, but he reminded himself it could no longer happen. Laufey would not let that half-blind madman fill his child’s head with hatred and poison. Never. 

And the downed king kept spewing his steady stream of threats, and Laufey kept listening, helpless by design even as rage made his limbs shake. 

“...So small and fragile. One can only wonder why you would ever leave him alone like that! Who knows what could happen to him in your absence! Such raw and untamed magic could attract all manner of things.  _ Catch _ all manner of things. Did you know, Laufey, that there’s an age before which there are no natural defenses to a mage’s core? The manner of curses they could contract while left unattended, tsk tsk...”

Odin was playing a very dangerous game, though he might not realise it, drunk on his pretense victory as he was. 

There was a reason Laufey was king and Farbauti was Queen, and it had naught to do with preferred gender. 

It had everything to do with one of them being the diplomat. 

And it was not Laufey.

“...Truly, you are unfit to raise such a promising young mage. Give him to me, and I can promise you I will unwind the curse. It would be a shame for him to be brought to death before he’d even reached majority, wouldn’t it? With me, he will be raised a prince, and never want for anything. It would be best for everyone, do you not agrlgguh?”

Odin’s last word ended on a bloody gurgle as the ice enclosing him skewered him through on all sides. It was a quicker death than Laufey would have liked, but he could not suffer another word from that lying, treacherous mouth. 

Blood dripped down, red rivulets tainting his ice as it streamed down and pooled on the glass. 

Here laid the King of Asgard. 

Pernicious fiend that he was. Laufey stared dispassionately at the macabre fountain, wondering distantly how it could be that such a malicious substance as that Aès’ blood could manage not to be as toxic as he was. He’d almost expected the bubbling stench of corrosion as his foul self was spilled upon the holy scriptures of their Temple floor. 

He had killed him. 

He wasn’t certain whether or not he had lost control of his ice, an error even teenagers no longer made, or if he’d simply let the yawning abyss inside his soul take the decision for him. 

His son had been threatened,  _ cursed  _ by this malignant ruler, who’d later had the gall to pretend taking his child from him and raising him with lies and pestiferous ideals would be  _ a mercy? _ This man who had sworn to bring them all to their knees, who’d considered them  _ beasts _ ? 

Odin had threatened their realm. He should have paid for that. He had attempted to take their most prized artifact, the heart of their realm, the soul of their ice. 

And Laufey had been willing to wait. 

But then he’d gone after his son. Had actually harmed his precious babe. And perhaps Laufey could have found himself merciful, could have listened to Odin’s terms in order to protect his child...

But the terms Odin gave him were despicable. And leaving his innocent newborn in the hands of that scourge was unthinkable. 

A shiver of horror broke through his stillness. Laufey might very well have condemned his little one to a slow painful death. But wasn’t a free life cut short better than one bound under the thumb of a tyrant? Wasn’t a life full of people who loved you better than one where you learned to despise your very existence? 

Laufey couldn’t know, but he couldn’t allow himself to be tempted either. Let him regret, let him doubt, but never let him be able to backtrack and pick that noxious path. 

Odin had not been able to leave that Temple alive. 

And Loki’s fate was sealed when his blood was spilled.

Nothing may undo that death. 

The wily king, the blaze-eye, the wanderer turned tyrant had perished. 

Laufey could only pray Ymir that he hadn’t doomed them all with him. 


	2. G5- Setting: Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, in a far far away land, there was a Prince. The most beloved and beautiful Prince of all times.

That Prince was born small, so small that he could fit in his Mother’s palm, and yet there was power inside his heart, magic beyond all imagining. 

And his parents rejoiced, and the land rejoiced, because in that babe’s heart laid the soul of the land, and their people’s salvation. 

But not all could see this birth with a benevolent eye. 

The neighboring King was an evil and jealous man, and he saw the power inside the babe’s heart and looked at it with greed in his heart. 

He mounted plots and waged a war, all to reach the precious Prince at the heart of the kingdom and steal him and his power away. 

But his nefarious scheme was thwarted by the fierce will of the child’s Mother barring the way, and as the Evil King lay defeated, he spewed foul names and evil curses, poisonous magic seeping from his wounds.

“If this power cannot be mine, then no one else shall have it!” he said with his dying breath. And he cursed the Little Prince in his rage. 

The Mother could only watch, helpless and horrified before such dark power, unable to stop the curse before it reached the babe. 

The Little Prince’s family was devastated at the misfortune that had befallen them. 

But then one day came an old crooked crone with ailing health, and a buxom matron along with a lithe and pretty maiden. They were powerful sorceresses coming from the North, and they’d heard of the Prince’s plight. 

“We cannot break the curse,” they said, “but we can contain it.” 

The parents, desperate as they were, showed them to the nursery where their son was still fitfully sleeping. With keen eyes, the three witches observed the child and the magicks plaguing him before nodding and secluding themselves with him. 

For three days and three nights they worked, from sunrise to sunset and from sunset to sunrise. And when finally they opened the door again, their face somber and tired, they came upon the frantic parents and said: 

“The curse was tied to his heart, as the Evil King planned to use its power. But what the Evil King had not known was that the people in this land do not have one heart but _two,_ and thus we were able to save your child.” 

The Crone’s canny eyes were piercing as she spoke, her voice raspy but powerful:

“This curse was woven around the Prince’s life force, made to grow and grow until it choked every ounce of life, but luckily my scissors are sharp and I cut off that snake’s thread. It shall not grow beyond the Prince’s warm-heart where we have it contained.”

The Matron spoke next, looking mournful and sympathetic at the King and Queen’s plight.

“The curse was shaped like a noose, made to strangle and kill, tightening with every beat. But luckily my fingers are nimble, and quick with their knots, I unwove what I could and loosened its hold. The heart will not die, merely fall to sleep, more and more until the child reaches the age of Hunting.” 

The Maiden spoke last, her smile soft and gentle. 

“The curse is draining, it will be a struggle for the Prince to even survive it, let alone combat it on his own. Luckily, I am myself very good at spinning new threads and spells of my own. I have tied my own spell to your son’s heart, and slipped it under the curse. It will link him to the one who will help him most, so that he will share his burden and help him to unravel the curse.” 

The next sundown, they had gone, leaving the King and the Queen not reassured but hopeful, and the little Prince finally sleeping peacefully. 

And so the Prince grew, with one heart beating strong, and the other slowly weakening. 

So the babe from the temple became an energetic toddler then a curious child then a quiet adolescent. 

The King and Queen tried looking for the one who would help their child, tied to the third witch’s sting, but soon found the endeavor hopeless. How, after all, could they manage to find a single being in the midst of the millions of thousands living on their land? 

And, the Queen added, the ones living in the other lands? 

They found that they could not possibly do so, as they had no single hint of who that person would be, except perhaps that they would help unravel a powerful evil spell. And so, perhaps, mayhap, that One they were waiting for would have powerful magic as well? 

And so, armed with the dedication of loving parents trying to save their child, they opened their frontiers to the neighboring lands, welcoming strangers into their midst and opening trade. Their child would not be kept from their One because their borders were closed.

And then, armed with the desperation of those who got so close to lose what they have most precious, they dismantled the protocols keeping the Royals from the masses. Their child would not be kept from their One because of differences in status.

And then, armed with the hope of those clinging onto the merest thread to the possibility of a happy resolution, they build the greatest magical academy of the realm, so that their son’s One would come to them. 

They made it accessible and convenient. 

They made it offer protection and status, knowledge and control, healing and freedom. 

They made it so every great mage would have to come through their doors at least once. 

And once they’d done all of that, all they could do was wait. 

Wait and watch the curse took more and more from their son, watch as the years went by without him finding his One, watched on as the signs they were waiting for never came to pass. 

And so the Babe from the temple became their beloved Little Prince, and then their greatest Scholar, even as his warm-heart slowed more and more. 

Until one day, one curious dreadful day, it thumped its last beat, and was heard no more.


	3. I2- AU: Odin lost the war against the jotuns

It was snowing. It was always snowing. 

Sitting on the ledge of the highest palace tower, Loki was hiding. The snow was his friend these days, helpful in keeping him hidden from the many people milling about down the streets below, and making the world cold enough that not many noticed how difficult it was for his warm-skin to manifest still. 

It had been that way since his warm-heart stopped. 

Of course, seeing blue people mingling amongst the crowds was no longer strange. Jotnar were valued members of any community these days, and the prejudiced that had run rampant during the Mad King’s reign were no longer in place except in the most remote and backward cities. Along with most of Asgard. 

But even then Loki’s parents had had a wish for peace and unification. A fool’s dream, some had said, but they’d succeeded, and these days every border was open and people could walk freely through every realm. 

Loki knew why they’d done so. He knew why the palace staff looked at him with barely hidden grief and pity in their eyes, knew what the whispers following said. 

It used to bother him, used to make him scream out and throw tantrums and set things afire. 

“I am alive! Look at me! Stop looking at me as if I’m already dead!”

He no longer cared.

That was part of the problem as well, he knew. The curse spreading. It continued spreading. 

He’d thought it would have reached its end with the last beat of his heart, his warm-self finally succumbing to the curse, but apparently there was more yet to come. Would the curse finally be satisfied when every emotion was snuffed out? Or would it only stop once he was an unmoving ice sculpture? 

They loved him, he knew. They all loved him, and in their own way, they attempted to make his life better, to make it count. 

He understood it. He did. He no longer resented it. 

But that didn’t mean he actually appreciated it. 

So when he heard the shuffling of his minders reaching his stairs, the decision wasn’t hard to make. He stood up on the ledge, looking back one last time to the empty room, some relics of the time we-here they needed a watchtower. They were getting closer. He waited until the top of their heads appeared from the trap door, and then— 

He jumped. 

Panicked and outraged shouts followed him as he fell down, exhilaration making him laugh as the adrenaline succeeded in doing something no one had managed in years. 

He laughed and laughed and laughed, and screamed in gleefulness, the sound swallowed up by the wind buffeting him, ice shards and flurries pelting him, blinding him. 

It was the most fun he’d felt in ages. 

Slowly, naturally, his magic started slowing his fall, curling around him protectively as he delicately touched down. Still high from the sheer rush, he looked up, giggling at the outraged face of his tutors and guards. 

Baffling his retinue was still one of the small things he could find joy in. 

And now, to lose them before they could catch him and drag him back to meeting about comparative grain prices along the Vanaheim borders. 

He wasn’t needed for that meeting, and it was ridiculous that Master Bjornkäl still was insisting on his presence. There were perfectly serviceable experts in that meeting. 

Loki would be there for the Assembly debate that would deal with the inclusion of Midgard within the Nine.  _ That _ was important. That was something that would require his wealth of knowledge on the opening of gateways and the ability to skywalk, along with his expertise in recognizing the magical density of a new world’s atmosphere. 

This was a waste of his time. 

There was already too little of it.

So he pelted through the crowds, feeling very much the vagabond in his tattered cloak and borrowed clothes, running through the marketplace like a thief running from pursuit, weaving amongst the stalls and almost bowling over what looks like some subspecies of dryad. 

While the tall, twig like person fell over what looked like a very cantankerous dwarf lady, Loki slid out of sight behind a stall curtain and turned his cloak inside out. 

Now a new person, “Young Merchant” Loki went back through the crowd in the opposite direction from the commotion he’d created. His guards would expect him to be where there was most chaos, and he didn’t intend to be found today. 

It was an important day for him, after all, even though he’d wager that  _ that _ was the reason most of the castle staff had done their best to plague him with innumerable pointless tasks all day long. 

No, this was The Festival, the day for parades and gifts and songs and costumes. This was a day of celebration. Of The Liberation of the Realms. Of the day the Tyrant was killed. 

Of the day Loki was cursed. 

His parents were usually unreachable on this Day. They appeared, briefly, at the procession to give the sendoff speech, and once again at the end, but the rest of the day, while they didn’t have to put up a front, they grieved. Loki didn’t think they did so on purpose but, sometimes he wondered if they didn’t consider that he’d died that night. 

Perhaps he had. 

He knew his mother blamed himself for having let him be cursed in the first place, and spent the day wallowing in the past, replaying over and over long gone events. Some times it meant always having Loki in sight, close by. Others it meant not even being able to look him in the eye. 

Laufey was a good King and a great mother. But her warm-heart was much softer than she let people know. 

Loki didn’t blame him. But he could not understand. Perhaps, not  _ anymore _ . He didn’t know, couldn’t tell. 

It didn’t matter. 

Today, Loki would go to the festival, would blend amongst the masses disguised as him, kin lines painted to mirror those of his clan in solidarity. 

He would sample wares from the stalls, sweet pastries and soft spicy breads from elven stands, crunchy and salty snacks from vanes, bountiful fruits and sugar spun delicacies. 

He would wander the markets without everyone bowing to their prince, or whispering after him, he would actually  _ buy _ things instead of having them handed to him as though he was some sort of charity case and…

And perhaps the situation was still bothering him more than he’d let it show. 

Wasn’t it just so delightfully ironic that the one day he could move around and stay mostly anonymous was the day that was dedicated to him, at least in part. 

And so, besides a few people commented on the artistry of his disguise, no one stopped him as he wandered through the brightly lit path, ducking along streamers and paper lanterns, seeing great and little feats of magic performed to amuse the masses, a few displays of battle skills, and some of artistry. 

His steps bounced along the rhythm of the various songs played by the traveling minstrels, following the paths from jaunty hymns to haunting ballads, letting the bustle of voices and harps and violas soothe his soul. 

Loki lingered around an ice sculpting contest, making note of the techniques of the contestants, before moving on and letting his attention be caught by a few glass blowers, and the stall of a vane master smith. Those skills were usually left to the mastery of dwarves, and indeed Loki could see how much difference the two schools of craftsmanship were, though he could not say that one was truly superior to the other. 

There were indeed dwarven booths just beyond, and they were eyeing the poor Vanir with unconcealed disdain. A cantankerous lot, the people of Nidavelir. And yet, some of them could be found speaking most amicably with a couple fire elementals, and a being with the characteristic grey skin of the Muspel sulfur plains. 

Small sculptures made of volcanic rock drew his attention then, the way they glowed with something that looked like an inner flame, never wavering embers of an eternal flame. 

Perhaps he could mimic such an effect with some of his own spells. 

Loki had always been fascinated by flames. Sometimes bitterly, as one watched something they could never have, perhaps something they needed. Perhaps he was the ice fly with it’s downy wings getting burned by the torch. 

Perhaps he was just a boy trying to melt his own frozen heart. 

It was no wonder he was hanging about the more fiery parts of the festival. It was loud, the sound of hammers drowning murmurs of the crowd but Loki rather thought they were making their own powerful melody, echoing the deep vibrations drums and making Loki’s bones sing with life.

There were many a reason to stay away from the crowds converging to the center of the festival in order to watch the play. For one, he’d heard the tale of Odin’s fall more times than he could count already, and he had no desire to hear the Skàld expound on his curse and the Norn’s interference again. 

But there were many a wonder to be found in the more delicate workings of ice crafters and plant weavers. There were also people he knew and enjoyed—or perhaps he only just found their company rewarding. Was there even a difference? He didn’t know, he never could. 

He knew, though it had been hidden from him, that some people had said he was an abomination. That one with no warmth-heart could only be cold hearted and careless about the lives of others. That he would take joy in destruction and discord, that he would be left cold at the loss and needs of others. 

They didn’t dare speak too loudly, and he’d been mostly sheltered from such vitriol, but Loki had his ways, and he needed to know what was said about him, even as he made a point not to care. 

He’d wondered about it. Asked himself, would he care if the people he loved were to disappear? Did he care about the ills that plagued his people? Did he care about the needy, those who’d been stricken by misfortune?

He’d been reassured to find that he did. In a quiet way. 

Perhaps it could be enough. 

So Loki drifted away from the contest of smiths. Seeing the semi-friendly rivalry of two craftsmen of the same trade but different realm was a still rare enough treat that he’d allowed himself to remain in the same place longer than was wise already. 

But it was good to see with his own two eyes the rewards of his family’s sacrifices. Such a meeting of cultures, in such a scale, and in such a peaceful manner would have been unheard of in the Tyrant’s time, with his vice grip on every inter-realm exchange, the bottleneck he’d created as a pathway entirely into his iron grip, and the perpetual and unlimited observation of his creepy spy. 

These days there were great Gates, the stable portals the work of many mages across the realms making it possible for everyone to travel through the realms and for the different cultures to meet unhindered. That it benefited Jotunheim and helped secure its position as a central cultural hub was only a bonus. 

Perhaps it was naive of him, but the very idea of a constant surveillance by the governments made him uneasy, even knowing he  _ was _ part of a realm’s ruling body and the threats brought with that status. 

But then, more than anything else, Loki was a God of Freedom. Never did he feel as free as when he was riding swift as the wind, or walking hidden paths and slipping away from his minders. He liked riding the line between the allowed and the frowned upon, doing tricks and waging mischief, and laughing as people flailed around as they dealt with the fallout.

And talking his way away from the ensuing trouble. 

Before his warmth-heart stopped, he would have said that it made him feel alive, made his both hearts beat as one, strong where every other time they seemed weak. It made him feel powerful, unbeatable, like the one in the eye of the storm watching the merry mayhem while being the only one left untouched. Like the conductor in the orchestra of Chaos, of Life, of everything that made days different from one another and life interesting. 

These days, he just said that he did it because he could. Because he wanted to. 

And so, before leaving the smith’s quadrant, he set of a couple strings of fireworks. Harmless illusory ones, no reason to set the stands a fire, but this should nonetheless create a bit of panic and distraction as he slid between two curtains and entered an entertainment district. 

Costumed entertainers paraded along a large avenue. Loki knew it meandered through the entire length of the fair, leaving a clear road for the visitors to follow in order to find their ways and still visit everything. 

And Loki fully intended to make the grand tour. It had been too long since he’d last had a day to spend relaxing. 

A couple jugglers and blade spinners marched along with a fire-breather. An ice-jotnar acrobat partnered with an imposing aesir swallowing ice-blades, a travelling band giving their show an almost entrancing quality. 

But what really caught Loki’s attention were the dancers. Cymbals and violins and small chimes resounded as the performers whirled and twirled, their colorful silks flying around them in an intricate choreography.

Something in Loki’s blood sang to him, the beat of the drums, the heat of the forge he’d just come out of, everything in him urged him to join in. 

Loki was the God of Freedom. He did as he wanted. 

With a flick of his hand, his cloak turned to bedecked clothes, emerald and shimmering golds, transparent veils and clinkling bells, and with a skip, he entered seamlessly into the dance. 

Loki threw himself in the act, his soul chanting as he whirled and jumped, bounded and twirled along the dancers and acrobats, flowing through the complicated steps as though he was born for them. He was a flame himself, flickering over the bonfire, letting the rhythm taking him along, feeling the joy and wonder of the passersby ring through his bones, the glee of the magic of the land echoing through his own at the flow of the other realm’s energies. 

This was  _ his _ realm, these were  _ his _ people, and they were  _ happy, _ and so Loki would dance for them, would fly on the current of the ambient magic and let himself be carried along. 

Loki was God of Magic, and sometimes that meant the complete abandon of letting the magic use him as a conduit, sing through him, chime along his bones and play his body as an instrument.

Without realising, his feet stopped walking the ground, gravity lost his hold on him as he rose ever higher on the currents, as he let the magic possess him until he was nothing but it’s conduit, a body left at the whims of the energy coursing through it. 

Loki loved it, loved that feeling of absolute freedom he felt as he relinquished control of himself and let himself just  _ feel.  _

He let himself be lost in it for a while, only touching down when curiosity made his eyes open again. 

Magic had guided him to the play area, a place of games and rides, challenges and carousels, where one could test their mettle against renown champions or simply play for small rewards. Loki eyed with some amusement a small green skinned child throw darts lopsidedly, missing the target by half a foot. The urge to help came and went as an older lady of similar coloring coming by to show the child the accurate posture. Loki smiled, and turned to the pens. 

Great riding beasts, hulking snow pachyderms, tamed wargs, swift vulpines and gentle hounds for children. A few more exotic creatures from Alfheim, thin legged does and a vegetalysed undead hog. Fae were… strange. Loki steered well clear of the rather creepy creatures, going to bury his hands in the thick mammoth fur. 

It was kind to have brought him there, it knew he’d always found comfort amongst the non-judgmental eyes of his four legged bethrens. They could oft understand him in a way no speaking being did. 

He breathed out, calming down from the rush. He still felt a little high but the trembles were coming. Hiding in the lumbering beast’s fluffy hide was probably safest. 

Every act of high magic had its price, and the price Loki had to pay was steep indeed. 

But he’d needed to feel  _ alive, _ just once more. 

And now he could feel himself coming down, seidr leaving his veins slowly, a terrible kind of withdrawal that left him weak and distressed, his ears ringing with echoes of things not-there. His shaking intensified, the curse inside his breast squeezing his chest tighter until his very breaths felt labored, until even keeping his eyes open was a chore. 

He felt strangely out of sync, as though the drumming in his ears was dissonant, like he was trying to dance to a rhythm that kept changing and no matter what he did, he was still  _ off. _

His legs gave out. 

He was crumpled against the great beast’s belly. His heart was fluttering, a caged bird trying to get back to their flight. 

The wargs came to sniff at him, worried by his current state, their wet snouts pushing against his neck. 

Loki felt cold. 

Loki was the God of Fire. He was an ice-jotun. His warmth-heart was asleep. 

He shouldn’t be  _ able _ to feel cold. 

He fought then, fought the cold, the curse, the weakness turning his limbs to lead, the phantom pressure against his ribcage. And yet, no matter how much he struggled, how hard he tried to cling to his consciousness, the darkness clawed back at him, pulling him down, choking him up. 

Loki was the God of Freedom, of Stories and Magic and Mischief. 

But Loki was cold, and there was no more magic. 

And then Loki knew no more.


	4. I5- “What's wrong with your nose?”

Loki woke with a start. 

_ “Danger nearby” _ , his magic was telling him,  _ “Loki awake. Listen.”  _

Curled amongst the mounds of fur, with the wargs sleeping in a pile on top of him, Loki was invisible and as safe as he could be. 

But the danger wasn’t from physical harm. 

He could hear them already. Footsteps, many people laughing. Loki knew that particular flavor of laughter, it was the mocking one, the deliberately cruel edge of one looking to wound and carve their poisonous mark on the tender underbelly of one who could not protect themself. 

And there was one voice amongst them that he could recognize all too well. 

His magic was sluggish, not yet recovered from his earlier indulgence. There would be no more great feats of magic on this day. 

Such a pity. It would have been most convenient, either to avoid a confrontation or to put a swift end to it in his favor. 

Loki dreaded the thought of having to speak to  _ him.  _

Bäalendr had been his friend. 

Loki had never been  _ alone,  _ growing up. As Prince and Heir of the Realm, there had always been servants and nannies, and attendants, and guards, and tutors, so many people bustling around him, taking care of him, following him around and just… being there. 

And yet he’d felt lonely. Isolated. 

It wasn’t necessarily only due to his status. It was likely that even as lively as he’d been as a child, even with his warmth-heart still beating strong in his chest, the potential of the curse hanging over his head had kept people, if not wary, then  _ remote. _

The other children had been… not quite kept from him but perhaps subtly discouraged by their parents to make an alliance with a boy who was potentially short lived compared to others. 

Bäalendr hadn’t cared, hadn’t heeded the warnings and decided to befriend him nonetheless. He’d found a companion in a small mischievous boy just as lonely as he’d been. 

And then he’d cut all ties with him when Loki’s warmth-heart beat its last. 

After all, amongst near immortals, childhood bonds of friendship were crucial for they built the foundations of your relationship networks, and thus who you would grow to become, and who you would be able to rely upon. 

What worth was the friendship of one as unreliable as Loki? None could know if he would even survive the turn of his first century, or if he would not be unrecognizably  _ altered _ when he did. 

And to be fair, Loki  _ had been.  _

But not nearly as much as to warrant Bäalendr’s behavior. 

“...skirting his duties again! Do you know he used to hide from his guard just because he ‘needed air’? How can we rely on him if he’s always ditching his attendants and playing around instead of going to court?”

Loki winced. 

That was a rather unfair caricature of his behavior, and yet he knew anything he could say to defend himself could only worsen the situation. There were no words he could offer to soothe riled tempers, no truths and no reasons. 

Such was the nature of bullies. 

“They should have made his brother the Heir, by now! We all know that was the reason the Queen bore the second Prince, with their first being defective it was only wise to get a replacement!” 

And perhaps that was a little too close to home to allow. 

“I remember when he was little he used to cry about being replaced. Unworthy, he called himself, because of the curse. Loki knows he doesn’t deserve the throne, that’s why he acts out! When are they  _ finally _ going to make it official and give us a  _ proper _ Heir?”

Loki remembered the day he’d learned of Farbauti’s pregnancy, and how devastated, how insecured he’d felt. How he’d poured all his hurts and worries to the willing ear of his one friend.  _ Was he being replaced? Was it because of the curse, did his parents think him unworthy after all?  _

So many hurts, so many fears, a child’s frail heart laid bare in trust. 

And to see it used against him in such a way. 

Loki’s hand slowly curled inwards, clenching into a fist. 

People called him cold and unfeeling sometimes. They said his eyes scared them. They said many things, true or not. 

But one thing they got wrong, was that Loki  _ did _ care. Loki always cared. 

And what Loki did not,  _ could not _ abide by… was the betrayal of trust honestly given. 

Slowly, as though he were one of the Mountain Jotnar from the old stories, he rose. The wargs made way for him, not parting from his side but standing by him. Loki gave them a grateful pet before turning red eyes cold as glaciers to the one he’d once called friend. 

Bäalendr was lucky that Loki’s magic was depleted, but that did not mean he would let this pass. 

There would be no mercy for that vermin. He knew better than to let rot fester. 

“Would you care to repeat that to my face, son of Boljarn?” 

There was something incredibly satisfying to see one’s enemy’s face drain of color, Loki mused, watching the group’s eyes widen as fear painted every face. 

Bäalendr’s face was still frozen in its mocking rictus, even as his fingers rubbed together in what Loki recognized as a nervous tic. 

Even then, Loki had had a hunter’s heart, making note of small details about everyone and everything. Signs of weakness, favored stances, predictability. 

And Bäalendr had always been  _ very _ predictable. 

So when he laughed nervously and carried on cockily as though he had the upper hand, Loki wasn’t surprised. When he jerked his head back to stare him down as though he had the right, Loki could only smile. 

When he spewed more poison, about his inadequacies and his heritage, about his upcoming death and the Queen’s dissatisfaction with him, Loki only felt the dark satisfaction that the fool hadn’t noticed the small sparks of magic he’d sent out. 

And when he lost the last of his nervousness and started smiling arrogantly again, when he spoke treason to the Heir’s face, Loki could only feel satisfaction curl in the pit of his stomach. Especially as the Royal Guards closed in on them just in time to hear Bäalendr quite clearly enunciate that he wished Loki had died already and that he should perhaps help things along. 

Now to push him just a little further...

“Now, now, son of Boljarn. I wouldn’t go spreading slanderous falsehoods and making empty threats if I were you. We all know how well that turned out for you last time, don’t we? Perhaps one with such a history of cowardice and bold faced lies should know to guard their words better. Or do you require another proof by example?” 

The tale was not a well known one, but it was not the first time Bäalendr’s words had lead to trouble. The last time he’d chosen to badmouth an ill-tempered old dwarf, and the results for him had been particularly humiliating. He’d done quite a bit of string pulling in order to keep the story under wraps, and it was clear by the hard glint in Loki’s eyes and the cold smirk on his lips that he fully intended to divulge the story to their horrified audience if Bäalendr didn’t do something  _ drastic _ to stop him. 

And as expected Bäalendr’s warmth-blood turned his head hot, skin flushing purple with the rage overcoming his senses. 

_ Go on,  _ Loki’s eyes dared him. 

And of course Bäalendr did. 

And played right into Loki’s hands. 

Loki barely felt the impact as the taller jotnar threw himself at him. 

He usually didn’t even notice anymore just how  _ small  _ he was compared to them all, barely paid attention, since his magic made him feel so much bigger than the limits of his own body, and a hunter’s cold-heart hardly cared about such things as size or fear anyway. It cared about what needed to be done. 

And at the moment, Loki needed to let himself be hit by a boy twice his size. 

Everything happened very fast after that. 

The guards pulled Bäalendr off him, cuffed him and arrested him for high treason and attempted murder on the Crown Prince. It didn’t take long for his so-called friends to make themselves scarce lest they be implicated for standing by and letting a dangerous terrorist harm a member of the Royal Family. If it got out that they’d been gossiping about him before the altercation, they could be pulled in for questioning for encouraging the madman. 

Loki made himself scarce just as soon, disappearing during the commotion. 

It wasn’t quite the way he’d been hoping to spend the day, but really, he supposed it was only a higher form of mischief. 

So, as he brushed the enchantment off his cloak and disguised himself once more, he decided he could feel pretty good about himself. He wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t back under his guard’s thumbs, and Bäalendr would be locked up for a while, hopefully learning his lesson before he was let out again.  _ If _ he was let out again. 

And it shouldn’t hurt his reputation either. No one but the most brutish aesir could side with someone who’d lost control of themself in such a ridiculous way.

With a bounce in his step, he wandered through the stalls, watching the people mingling, small families moving about and having fun without a care for the cloaked stranger moving amongst them. He was but one of many anonymous travelers enjoying the fair. 

Until he came across the small green girl again, who tugged on his sleeve and looked him right in the face with wide curious eyes.

“Mister! Hey, mister blue man! What’s wrong with your nose?” 

Confused, Loki brought his hand to his face. There was no pain, there was no mishapenness, in fact  _ there was no feeling at all. _

With mounting apprehension, he lifted his hand before his face. 

It was covered in blood. 


	5. G3- Writing Style: Beige Prose

Loki felt numb as he walked back to the castle. 

He couldn’t tell what had happened between the confrontation with the girl and the moment he reached his chambers. It was a blur. 

Everything was a blur. 

Of course Loki knew what it had meant. The curse was getting worse. 

They had all speculated on what the next stage would be. 

Living it was quite different. 

Loki looked around his room. 

It was as he’d left it and yet everything was different. 

He felt like a stranger in his own body. 

It was his own fault, he knew. He’d overused magic. That always made the curse faster. 

But it would have happened anyway at some point. 

Loki didn’t regret it. He’d enjoyed himself. 

And that happened so rarely. 

There was such a steep price for every moment of happiness. 

He knew many people didn’t understand why he didn’t just… stop. Why he didn’t seclude himself, putting his life on pause until the cure was found. Why he didn’t attempt to stall it. 

Laufey had. He’d always understood Loki. 

They were as close as they could be, even now, even though Loki knew it hurt his mother to see the curse take more and more from him. 

But he’d understood nonetheless. 

“Better a short life lived in full than no life at all,” he’d said. 

“I trust you to make your own choices and live your own life,” he’d said. 

Would he still think so after learning of Loki’s actions on this day?

What a terrible irony for the God of Freedom to be shackled so. That curse was the worst kind of fetters one could possibly put on him. 

He had laughed, earlier. He had danced and felt joy. The smile on his lips had been impossible to resist. 

The magic had sung through him. 

Loki had been free. For one single moment, he’d been alive. 

And it was over now. 

Now was the time to pay the price. 

Now he was hiding in his own room. No one in the castle could get in. He could hear them, pounding at his door. Tingling along his wards. 

They were all clamoring for his attention. For his testimony against Bäalendr. For his opinion on farming, of all things. For reassurance as to his health. 

There was no reassurance to be given. 

There was no one he wanted to see. 

He could never avoid the one he wanted to get away from most. 

Loki looked at his hands. A stranger’s hands. A stranger’s body. 

Perhaps he would truly turn to a statue as some said. Perhaps the ice would cover him until he could no more move than feel. 

It was strange.

Loki hadn’t felt nearly so lost when his warmth-heart stopped beating. 

Perhaps this time the loss felt closer. His feelings had dulled gradually, after all. 

This was a shock. 

He was in shock. 

He sat down. Or rather, he let himself fall upon his bed. His posture was atrocious. 

He didn’t care. What did it matter? What was a slump in the face of a stranger’s skin? 

He could not stop replaying those moments in his mind again and again. 

He could feel texture and volume through his fingers. The skin of his face was devoid of sensation. 

He hadn’t yet dared check elsewhere. 

He knew, whatever he would find, the curse would keep spreading anyway. Whatever respite he got, it was only temporary. 

Somedays he wondered why he should even bother fighting. 

Somedays he wished his mother hadn’t killed Odin so that he’d have the pleasure to do it himself. 

Somedays he could even forget the curse was there. 

Somedays. 

Somedays he understood the sheer despair in Laufey’s eyes on this date, the way he curled his shoulders a little when no one was looking. Somedays he felt it too. 

Somedays he felt nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

He let the blackness swallow him. 


	6. N4- Kink: Abrasion Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for self harm in this chapter, along with very unhealthy sexual practices. So read at your own risk, and be safe.  
> (needless to say, do not try this at home kids)

Nothing was working. 

He’d woken with a mage’s determination to uncover all the aspects of this new iteration of the curse, this strange skin he was trapped into. 

It looked the same, and yet. 

Loki had tried everything, no touch upon his skin brought a single reaction. Impacts had no effect. Nor caresses, nor burns nor...

It made no sense, but the curse rarely did. 

Loki was slumped on his bed, hands lying limp on his knees. 

Hopelessness. He hated that feeling, from the pit of his spiteful heart he refused to let Odin win from beyond the grave. 

Odin.

How he must have laughed in his last breath, knowing that even in death he would be remembered, he would still bring pain and misery to his victims. 

But Loki was no one’s victims. 

The curse had shaped his life, Odin’s shadow following his every step, watching from his shoulder, mocking him, judging him. Putting him down each time he dared to rise above it. 

He refused to let it continue. 

The Tyrant had had too much hold on his life already. Loki would not let him take the ability to feel pleasure from him as well. 

Already he was mourning the soft touches he got from his parents great hands, the comfort he got from the warm hugs squeezing him from all sides, the games with his younger brothers bowling him over. He would no longer be able to feel them, to take comfort from them. 

Not without remembering what was missing. Not without knowing what the curse was taking from him again. 

Loki could not change that. But he could still fight it, in his own way. 

Curse be the fool who tried to trap the God of Freedom. He would win, if only out of sheer vindictiveness. 

He would not lose anything that was his, he would cling to it with both hands, and dig his claws in if he had to. This was  _ his body, his skin.  _

Odin had no right to take that from him. So he would not. 

Let the dead stay dead, and let them not haunt the living, he thought. 

And let the God of Mischief still find a way to do what he wanted  _ against all odds, _ he vowed, fierce determination filling his mind as his hand slid across is lap and took hold of his limp cock. 

Nothing. 

But Loki was not discouraged. He was known to find loopholes and creative solutions to the most ridiculous of problems. And, worse comes to worst, he always had a backup plan. Or several. 

Granted, they oft got a bit out of hand, but hopefully he would be able to keep this particular problem of his to himself, so to speak… 

Loki was  _ not discouraged.  _

His breath roughened. His hands were trembling as they rubbed harder against his skin, taking hold of his cock, his arms, his thighs, squeezing, pinching. 

Nothing, nothing,  _ nothing! _

Breath hitching, Loki pressed his eyes closed, then buried his face in his hands, tugging at his hair. 

...nothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothing _ nothing! _

Loki  _ was not  _ discouraged. He wasn’t. 

He wasn’t… hunching his shoulders, hugging himself as he’d done so many times in his youth when he’d felt the weight of the world upon his shoulders, when he’d felt so desperately  _ alone.  _ Except, this time he couldn’t feel the faint comfort he’d derived from it before. 

He was so so painfully isolated. Even from himself. 

Rage and horror and terror choked him up, he could only rage helplessly at the sheer unfairness, his fingers clawing down his arms in his grief. 

It hurt. 

It  _ hurt! _

A scratch. He could feel that. It hurt, but experiments had shown Loki that he could derive pleasure from pain. It wasn’t his preference, far from it, but it was  _ possible. _

Wounds he could feel, but only when he breached the skin. 

So he explored. He knew himself, his body, his most sensitive places. Or at least, he knew them  _ before _ . They were all dead now, and the disconnect was jarring. 

So jarring that he dug his claws in deeper than he expected, drawing blood and a hiss of pain from his lips. But then, in contrast with the sheer isolation of being locked from his own touch, in contrast with the absolute nothingness from most of his skin’s receptors… 

The pain  _ did _ feel good. 

With a single gesture, his ice mattress, formerly as fluffy as a cloud, turned to a bed of spikes. 

It looked punishing, and as hedonistic as Loki was he could feel something in his mind struggle at the thought of laying back down. 

And yet there was something savage inside him, something deep down in his heart that relished the idea of wounding that traitorous flesh, of taking revenge on his own body. It had been the one thing he should have always been able to rely on, and yet it was now failing him in a way that felt like the worst of betrayals, almost like a violation. 

So it was with vengeful relish that he let himself fall on it, hissing with the pain of a thousand pinpricks feeling tearing into his back even as his magic was already working to heal them. 

His nerves tingled at the contrary feelings, the barest embers of arousal kindling at the mess of emotions and sensations sparking through him.

His rage died. 

It could work. 

There was no need for desperation just yet. 

He breathed in. Exhaled shakily. 

Slowly, carefully, he let his claws run over his flesh, scraping and scratching, deeper than he usually did, deeper than could possibly be comfortable. 

Just deep enough to spark flickers of pain through his nerves. 

And the more pain, the more feelings, the more he managed to compartmentalize, to spin carefully the story. 

He could convince his mind and soul that it was not actually pain, but  _ sensation. _ That what he was feeling was under his control, just one more experimentation. 

When he arched his back into the points, it felt almost like a lover’s nails scratching down his back, just like a hint of spice to make the passion run hotter, to make the pleasure seem even sweeter. 

He knew he was cutting, wounding, hurting himself through so many shallow gashes he would worry for the health of anyone less magically powerful and yet... and yet. 

It was careful work, crafting illusions good enough to fool himself, and the curse too in the process. Weaving magic into his cuts, mere sparks of it to give the illusion of pleasure, if not life, was something he could still do without paying too high a price. 

He did not notice when his cock filled, only found out once he was actually hard, and he could only feel bitter triumph at having bested his own personal demon. 

With a mixture of savagery and glee, the conflicted despair of one winning a battle they never wanted to take part in, he dug his claws into the soft flesh on the inside of his thigh, the one place stat had always felt most sensitive…  _ before.  _

He came. 

His orgasm was… a relief. 

Yet not. 

Here he was laying on his restored bed, covered in blood from already healed wounds and dried come, and he felt empty. The ice was stained purple and he felt even more isolated than before. 

Empty. 

Looking up at the intricately carved ceiling of his room, he could only wonder if he'd really won or if he’d played right into his dead tormentor’s hand. 

Because, truly, what had he won but knowledge that he could convincingly lie to himself and claws coated with his own blood? 

And at what price?

He breathed in again. Exhaled painfully through the lump in his throat.

He’d proved himself able to feel pleasure  _ despite  _ his curse. For now. He’d shown he could still do as he wanted. That no one could truly shackle him and dictate what he could and could not _ feel.  _

He had proven to himself he was alive. He wasn’t dying just yet. 

Not yet. 


	7. I1 Single Word Prompt: Creativity

Hammers clanged, pipes whistled, steam rolled as the furnace crackled. 

The workshop was never silent, even when Tony wasn’t actually there. But when he was…

The hammer came down again, and again, on the foiled metal sheet, shaping the unyielding material until it matched the image in his mind. 

Small and big leather bound journals littered the place, covered in neat scribbles and less neat stains, of oil or ink or beverages. Some pages contained small and big drawings and diagrams of ideas and inventions, others carefully etched tables with readings of compared tensile strength and conductivity dutifully noted down for each created alloy. 

Order within chaos, a method to his madness. 

In Tony’s workshop, nothing existed beyond the wonders being created, and the tools in his hands. Nothing but endless possibilities, changing, forming, and being shaped through his hands. 

Calculations fusing through his mind, complex but so, so  _ easy _ , fitting together like the pieces of the most obvious of puzzles. Lines of designs appearing bit by bit, slowly taking form under his careful ministrations. 

That workshop was Tony’s life. 

There he could truly be himself without the expectations of social behavior, he could drink his terrible imported brew and be messy. He could ignore the too loud demands of the exterior world, and lock himself down there for days. Days of peace, days of a noise of his own making instead of the constant chattering of gossip mongers and mean spirited  _ church-bells _ and other gal-snatchers. 

Nothing could reach him, no “urgent business”, no craving for inebriation to numb the constant consistent  _ noise _ of people crowding everywhere, with their petty worries and their lies and their agendas. 

Had he the true means to decide his path such is the one he would take. The queer man always inventing new and impossible things. He definitely wouldn’t mind being called a bit soft in the head, or being passed for the invitation for the latest social event. 

Tony had no love for high society. He had no love for parties and overly flowery language and  _ niceties. _

He wanted peace. He wanted to be able to stay there in his laboratory and just… be. 

Inventing was like a dance. the careful succession of steps that, when playing out in the right order, with the right rhythm, could make something  _ beautiful. _ Nothing was superfluous, no pause was useless, no junk was worthless. 

Everything has its place and Tony was only following the melody, letting himself be carried away by his muse. It was soothing. 

It felt  _ right.  _

So few things did. 

He was out of place everywhere else, as though he was always one step behind or ten steps ahead of everyone else. 

It was frustrating. 

It was agonizing. 

It was lonely. 

There were always so many things in his head, thoughts, ideas, designs, intuitions, a  _ vision _ of what could be. And yet he was mute, unable to communicate even the barest of it to  _ anyone. _ It was as though he was speaking an entirely different language for all the good that it did. 

So he’d learned to just… not. Keep his oddities to himself, his  _ otherness. _

It was safer that way, after all. It wasn’t like he wanted the Shield Brigade to get a whiff of him. 

Of what he was. What he did. 

But he still had to get all those things  _ out of his head _ , else he become completely  _ mad.  _

So he’d made this place, this refuge. There he could let his creativity out, he could express all those unsaid things, and let out all those cooped up ideas crowding up his brain. He could find peace. 

Somedays, Tony couldn’t even hear himself  _ think _ for how loud it got otherwise. All those things coursing through his mind at the same time made him think himself mad, answering conversations long past, or speaking out of turn about things that seemed so very unrelated. 

He could become so disconnected from reality he scared himself. 

But there, with his hands jotting everything down in his journals, or manipulating small cogs and thin wires, melding them, shaping them, assembling them… 

There he was never scared, never  _ absent. _

He could move fluidly, almost dancing through the motions of creation, each step bringing him more peace as he soothed the terrible muse possessing him. 

He was the only one able to follow his own train of thought and so long as he was surrounded by his machines, he was never judged for it. 

He could try things out, discard them, try something else, and use his findings for another project, or another. The possibilities were infinite but that didn’t matter. It was in his  _ hands.  _

It made the world felt real.

Even as he was the most isolated, it was the way he belonged most. 

It was strange how peace had so many different meanings. His laboratory was loud, always loud and filled with life and moving things, hammers clanging, steam bursts out of whistling pipes and hot crackling fires fed with coals. 

There were sharp implements and dangerous tools everywhere, it was a hazard for anyone else because any single misstep, any lagging at the wrong time could be disastrous. Lord knew how many injuries he’d gotten there. 

But to him, it was peace. 

And he drowned himself in it. 

Until the real world came calling. 


	8. B4- Setting: Victorian

Tying the bow of his neckcloth around his neck, the young Lord Stark wondered if today was a good day or if he should instead put on his sunglasses. 

The fine tremor to his hands as he adjusted his cufflinks told him that it would be wise to take precautions. The night had been harrowing already, wrought with nightmares and unexplainable sights, beds of nails and cristalline bloodstains, and he’d woken even less rested than usual. 

The time spent in his lab had not settled his soul quite as much as it usually did, and had it been any other engagement, he would have rescheduled.

Anthony rather supposed a good day was too much to hope for when having to deal with the legacy of his late father. 

So, as he plucked the sunglasses from his desk and set their large circular frame upon his nose, he resigned himself to a restrained range of vision. 

It was probably for the best, regardless. The less contact he had with the exterior world the better. And the more barriers between himself and strangers, the best for everyone. 

Already, he never left without his gloves. They were something of a saving grace, and how relieved he was that it was part of a respectable gentleman’s panoply, as much as his top hat and cane. 

He never removed them when outside of his home. It ruffled some feathers, of course, and it wasn’t like he had any intention of ever explaining this particular  _ quirk _ of his, but it was still much better than the alternative. 

Closing up his waistcoat with quick fingers, he turned to take his top hat and cane from his ever patient butler and finally stopped avoiding his eyes. 

“I will be back before dark, Jarvis. Do make sure no one tries to mess up my experiments in the meantime.”

“Of course Sir. One should indeed wonder what manner of creature you are trying to raise from the mold, and thus I shall endeavor not to… ‘disturb your experiments.’”

Anthony could only smile at the deadpan reply, Jarvis’ sense of humor never failed to bring a smile to his face. 

“Lies and slander, Jarvis. There is no mold monster growing in my lab. Mold is scared away by your very presence in this house.” 

‘If you say so, young master.”

“Oh but I do say so, J.”

Jarvis was worried. 

Anthony had known he was worried even before he’d come down to the ‘shop in order to remind him of his afternoon engagements. His butler always tried to give him a bit more time when he thought his Young Master Stark really needed it. 

And he also announced his arrival with the heavenly smell of a brew of coffee beans and steaming French pastries. 

Jarvis  _ really  _ knew how to make him more cooperative. 

But even that hadn’t erased the worried line between his brows, or the way he kept checking over and again that the boots were shined, that the focus crystal in his cane had been properly cleansed, and that his cufflinks were the specific ones that showed his family crest, or that his signet ring was cleared of wax and properly burnished. 

Twice. 

One would almost think  _ he’d _ be the one having to deal with Master Fury’s notoriously cantankerous temper in order to sort out the mess that his father had made of the accounts. 

Not that the late Lord Stark had been _bad_ in his business dealings. Rather it seemed that he had been a tad bit too trusting with who had access to his seal. As a result, everything they thought had been approved now required auditing and careful review in order to either uphold the deed or add to the growing pile of confirmed forgeries. 

All of which took time, effort, and not a small bit of frustration. 

And Anthony never did well with frustrated people. 

Jarvis knew that, of course, and he was one of only two people in the whole world to know just to what extent he truly  _ did not do well  _ with them. 

However, this was exactly the type of business he could not delegate, especially considering his late father’s… miscalculations. 

Master Fury called it a blunder of considerable repercussions. The young Stark could not show his face to him without the older man’s features taking a decidedly sour countenance. 

Anthony did not blame him. 

Nonetheless, it was unpleasant for all concerned parties. 

And yet, that was a responsibility Anthony, as the new Lord Stark, could not skirt. 

Just as he could not get out of his social obligations at the club. 

Jarvis knew this as well as he did. He’d been the one to teach him the virtues of punctuality and reliability after all. 

Anthony’s sense of responsibility certainly did not come from his late father. He’d hardly known the man after all. Instead, the old butler had been the most prominent influences in his education. 

Anthony rather thought it was the best thing his father had done for him. 

It also meant Anthony was permitted, or rather decided to forgo permission altogether, to break propriety and take hold of his old mentor’s hand and send him a reassuring smile and a snarky quip before stepping out into the bustle of New London. 

He could feel his butler’s concern and care follow him into the London fog. 

The streets were damp and dirtied by coal smoke still, even though they had been converting most of London’s factories to using nyddthil crystals combustion for two decades. 

Ever since the realms had made first contact with Earth, their own brands of technological wonders had started appearing in the streets, though most times it was reserved for the elites. 

It had been almost a century however, and the mingling between the different races and mankind had sped along considerably, enough even for nyddthil to become more widely accessible. 

That did not mean that Earth had stopped its own race for technological improvements, however. No matter how many pointy-eared or green-skinned characters started walking the streets. 

A couple of scientists were still hashing out the process of making electricity widely usable to replace coal and oil in domestic use at least, but it wasn’t yet functional. Not least of why due to the absence of a compatible power source. Batteries like Volta’s were not viable for a wide spread use, but Anthony had met a Sir Parsons once and he rather thought his prototype could be operable rather soon. Even so his engine would require power to function, steam the young Earl had believed, and dependency on either coal or nyddthil had its own repercussions. 

Anthony himself had a couple projects in the works. Nothing concrete as of yet, but he rather hoped he would manage to produce either something compatible with Sir Parsons’s device or a completely different alternative, he didn’t quite know yet. 

He rarely did, when the muse took him. 

The hovercoach was waiting for him, gently humming with the seidr powered levitation array coupled with electromagnetic charge system. The combination of seidr based devices and their own advancements in mechanical and electrical engineering was only in its wobbly first steps. And yet, the potential there was infinite, and this little marvel of ingenuity and sheer vision was only one of many possible manifestations of it. 

It had started from his father’s work, but Anthony was the one to finish it. Putting his hands on the prototype had been enough to make him dizzy, the possibilities flashing through his mind at a bewildering speed, ideas and designs and circuitry and arrays and energy… 

The solution to fix it had come incredibly easily. Prototypes after failed prototypes had come into being and been discarded just as soon, showing him each time what went wrong and what could be improved. How it didn’t work and how it  _ could _ work. 

It had taken time, but the knowledge had been so easy to grasp, the lessons so easily learned, Anthony had only been hungry for more. 

However, he’d reasoned, there were many more things left to discover from the use of electricity alone, and it would be best not to neglect the study of one in order to work with the other. 

So he had paced himself. 

The hovercoach designs were still enough to give him a tidy sum, enough to put him back onto one of the most prominent and richest bachelors of New London. It had given him time and funds enough to invent, though it had also come with a slew of invitations and social engagements that he would have much rather avoided. He could do without debutantes swarming him at all times. 

He was still inordinately proud of his design. The swift and strong lines of the roof curving down, the bold lines sweeping through the sides and framing the doors, the soft copper finish that nonetheless showed through part of the engine… 

Yes, the youngest Stark was proud of his creation. 

The work might have been inspired by Cugnot’s self-propelled vehicle almost a century before, and the most recent prototypes that many of his contemporaries had been improving upon, along with his father’s own designs, but it was nonetheless indubitably  _ his _ work. From the overall aesthetic of the coach to the brand new  _ working _ engine, to the careful inclusion of seidr based mechanics, everything about this design was  _ his own _ . 

And to think, his father had simply wanted to make a hovering  _ horse-drawn _ carriage. 

There was so much potential in the minds of these days, so many varied and complex theories, an endless potential for innovations. It was incredible. 

And overwhelming. 

Thankfully, the interior of his hovercoach was insulated against the noise and the constant bustle of London’s streets. He used the stirrup to climb into the cabin and closed the door behind him, sighing in relief as his headache started abating, just a little. Here, shielded from the constant press of loud voices, street-sellers broadcasting their wares, horse drawn and motor driven carriages, the smoke and beggars, food stalls and gypsies… 

Here Tony could breathe. Just for a while. 

Through the windows, he could see the dank streets pass by, the fog curling along the pedestrians legs, crowding the corners of his sight. Sometimes he thought he could see shapes in there. Perhaps the ghost of one of Jack the Ripper’s victims? 

The journey passed in a haze, lampposts and commoners blurring together as his driver brought them unerringly to Master Fury’s doorstep. 

With a sigh, the young Lord Stark stepped back into the smelly and damp London air, crossing the few feet separating him from the front door before knocking on it with the topper of his walking stick. 

After but a few seconds, a young maid opened the door for him. Her face was severe, hair pulled back neatly and uniform immaculate. 

Young Maria, then. 

“The Master is awaiting you in the study. Mister Coulson is with him. Constable Rogers makes his excuses, but he’s been called away to deal with a commotion down in the docks.” 

The day promised to be long, he mused as he stepped into the notary’s, giving the young Maria his coat and hat and nothing more. It never boded well, when the family solicitor came to their sessions. 

***

It had indeed been harrowing. Mister Coulson had come across even more discrepancies and trades with enemies of the Crown, and as the Stark Lord he’d had to prove that he wasn’t  _ actually  _ involved in treason, only framed and conned by it. 

It was rather infuriating. 

As was the slowness of due process, checking each stamp, comparing, all those small details taking hours for each document before reaching a decision. Tony was exhausted. 

There would of course be a much quicker way for him to figure that out. If it were only from him, he could have finished the work in a mere couple of hours, instead of merely trudging through a couple of piles. 

But it wasn’t to be. Some things were better kept to himself.

The day ended with Mister Coulson taking with him the few deeds confirmed as false to bring to the Queen’s intelligence and Master Fury almost vibrating with frustration. 

Anthony hadn’t removed his gloves once. 

His headache hadn’t abated. 

He was still expected at the gentleman’s club.

The day was yet young, the dusk still far off by a few hours at least. He need not remain there for long, merely call upon them and enter for but a few minutes. He would be back to his sanctuary by nightfall and Jarvis would not need to worry quite so much anymore. 

Hopefully. 

Getting back into his hovercoach was a balm upon his strained mind. There was blissful nothingness, no more shouts, clamor, whispers. 

Anthony let himself melt into his seat while his faithful driver took him to the Widow’s keep. 

In any other day, Tony might have enjoyed his trip there. It was, after all, a place where he could encounter even minded people, some of them with peculiar tastes matching with his own. 

And yet, on this day, he could not help but have a strange feeling about it. That headache was playing on his senses, making him feel weak and strangely dissonant within his own skin. Perhaps he should check himself for a fever. 

Anthony breathed out again, his exhales shaky as he went through the breathing exercises prescribed to him. Concentrating on parts of his body one after the other, feeling his pulse beating against his fingertips, his belly, his toes… 

Calm seeped into his bones. His hands stopped trembling. 

His headache did not leave. 

With a frustrated sigh, Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. His dark glasses were still filtering out the too bright lights, but sometimes Anthony wondered if he wouldn’t do better to simply put on a blindfold for the rest of the day, and perhaps smoke some opium. There was a certain blissfulness to that insensate state that vague torpor that left one feeling as the tides slowly drifting and rolling over the ocean. 

He couldn’t afford to put himself in that state before reaching the club. 

And he certainly couldn’t let himself lose control once  _ in _ the club. There were quite a few many secrets they would keep for him, share with him, even. But this was not one he wanted to risk. Already, two people knew of his plight, which was still too many for his taste. 

By now, they were pulling out in front of the club’s house and his eyes were still swimming. 

There would be tales to learn, games to play, secrets to keep. The young Lord Stark mourned the time where he could have reveled in the perceived freedom, the lack of responsibilities and trust. The more one had to hide, the less they could enjoy such places. 

Of course, there was a gheas not to tell other members secrets. What happened in the club remained in the club, after all. 

But there were ways around that. 

Tony could never risk it. There were too many things he still had to do, to build. Too many things he didn’t want to leave behind. And yet. 

It had started raining, in the time it took them to reach their destination. A light drizzle making the city look even more dreary, if it was possible. 

People in the street were bustling over, covering their food stands, calling out to passersby and living their lives. 

Tony felt strangely detached. 

The small porch roof over the club’s front door meant that he could probably wait for the door to open without ending up entirely drenched, and yet he still hesitated to come out of the coach. 

Everything was strange, distant. 

The Widow’s keep. 

On the other side of that door, there would be smoke and warmth and the low rumbling of their small crowd talking away. There would be life and the petty worries of the English upper class. There might even be entertainment, a couple musicians, maybe a dancer or some curiosities from far away places. There would be games and drinks and laughter and gossip, the kind of relaxation a gentleman could hardly allow outside of the privacy of his own home, if even there. 

They were waiting for him, he knew, and he couldn’t afford to let them down again. His reputation was damaged enough as it was. The invitation letter had been clear enough about that, veiled as the words had been.

His top hat secured over his head, his appearance checked one last time for propriety, he left the relative safety of his carriage car and stepped onto the curb, heedless and seemingly unaffected by the flurry of activity surrounding him. 

He was a gentleman, and there would always be expectations to his behavior. 

Unhurriedly, he walked up the few steps to the door, knocking steadily on the wood with the tip of his cane. 

His head was pounding. 

It opened almost instantly. He had indeed been expected, and of course Lord Stark was nothing if not punctual. 

“Finally! I had started to think you’d been eaten by one of your own inventions, Tony!”

The servant quietly closed the door behind him, and Anthony turned to look for the source of the exclamation. 

Clinton had been waiting just inside the door, out of sight of passersby since he was clearly not appropriately dressed for company outside the club, with his tie undone and his shirt half opened as it was. 

Anthony couldn’t help but smile at that. 

Out of all members of the club, it was Clinton he had most missed. The other man had been something of a friend since childhood, insisting on joining Anthony’s scrapes and giving a willing ear when Tony had felt lost, trying in vain to gain his father’s attention. 

Out of everyone there, Anthony felt that Clinton was the one he could trust most. He could feel that he’d keep his secrets, that he’d take his side. 

Clinton had genuinely missed him, and was eager to see him again. But Anthony was no longer  _ Tony, _ the little ruffian who went to steal sweetcakes from the cook, or climbed down the window to explore the streets, nor even the carefree child with clever hands repairing stray clocks and the few modern conveniences that had started to appear in their houses. And the young Lord Stark didn’t know how well his old friend could understand that. 

Moreover, how tolerant could his friend be of the secret Anthony had been keeping? 

There was a stigma about people like him, and for good reason. The thought of being found out for what he was was a dreadful one. 

Instead of dwelling more upon it, Anthony smiled, offering his hat and coat to the doorman and quickly distracted his friend from the eccentricity of not removing more by offering niceties. 

“It has indeed been too long, old friend.”

Clinton laughed at that, clapping his shoulder and guiding him out the hall and down the reception area. The game room was full already, and Anthony recognized many faces, but not all. A few jumped out to him clearly, familiar from days and nights spent together, drinking, gambling, smoking, discussing topics heavy and light alike. 

In another life, he could have called them friends. 

The Widow sashayed her way over, her black corseted dress highlighting her delicate frame and her black veil doing nothing to detract from her scandalously red painted mouth and black rimmed eyes. 

That was the Lady Natasha, Widow of… quite a few many greedy Lords, in fact. Anthony did not know which one had been last, nor did he much care to find out. It had certainly served her fortune well, and a widow’s status was apparently quite an enjoyable one for women. It suited her independence well. 

Some rumors said that she was an Agent of Her Majesty’s Intelligence, and the Lady Natasha was certainly competent and knowledgeable enough to be. 

She was, also, the only woman bold enough to flout society’s rules of propriety in any manner that she struck her fancy. Which included not only hosting but also  _ joining _ in a gentleman’s club, and painting her face in the manner of… ladies of lesser fortune, one could say. 

Anthony considered her friendship both a blessing and a curse. For clearly, letting any details about her friend’s lives go unknown was most irksome to her, and she always came to his side with a charming smile and a pointed question. 

Cigar smoke was heavy in the air, giving the room a hazy feeling. There might be an opium pipe in a corner, brought back from one of the widow’s husband’s many travels, and its mists were slowly drifting through the room. 

“Hello, stranger. You’ve certainly made yourself scarce. Do you have any idea what lengths does a lady have to go through in order to get some time in your presence, these days?” 

Anthony blinked back the smoke from his eyes. His glasses only protected him from so much, but even through the dark lenses he could see the red of her lips and the green of her eyes. Too vivid, not quite real. 

He smiled, charmingly, politely, as a gentleman was wont to do, bowing down to kiss his hostess’ hand. Gloved. Thankfully. 

Looking up at her knowing eyes, he wondered, not for the first time, if she was like him, at least a little. 

It would certainly explain her fondness for Clinton. He had always found him most soothing. Something about his straightforwardness, maybe. Clint had always spoken his mind and never seen the use for secrecy, for all of that political maneuvering of unsaid judgements and reputation plays. 

But then, he knew better than to ask. 

And  _ she _ was certainly too clever to do so in such a place that would lose her the advantage that knowing his deepest secret would give. 

As it was, he let go of her hand as soon as courtesy allowed, and kept his smiles genuine. Regardless of intent and confidences, he  _ did _ like the Lady Natasha. She had a fine mind and a flawless manner that had the power to turn most men into blathering fools and get anything she wanted from them.

Anthony could respect that. 

They continued staring each other down for a while, some manner of battle of wills passing between them as his answering quip disappeared under the rushing in his ears. 

Until, finally, Natasha released him, smiling kindly as any good genteel lady should. She welcomed him, speaking the common platitudes that the other gentlemen of the club needed to hear before guiding him to a more private antechamber where his other closest acquaintances where relaxing. 

“Tony. We missed you,” she said softly as soon as the door closed behind them. Her smile turned true for one brief moment, beautiful and soft, before the mask of the court lady came back, opaque and ever-pleasant. 

Anthony bowed his head, acknowledging the glimpse of true feelings for the honor it was. 

But not quite returning it. 

Something sad crossed Natasha’s face before she turned away, respecting his wish for privacy. She became the perfect hostess, showing the cabinet with new curiosities, the collection having grown leaps and bounds since he’d last come. 

Anthony followed after her, interested in all those strange pieces of artwork and technology from such far away places. Some of these were clearly artifacts designed with magic users in mind, and the various ways they practiced their craft and the wildly different tools used were always of interest to an inventor seeking to combine seidr use and electricity. 

As they walked, he could feel her eyeing him sideways, observing his reactions no doubt, and checking on his welfare. 

His weakened state would certainly not escape her notice, not even with as well as he’d been masking it. She might not figure out immediately what the cause was, after all, sickness was still rife in this time, and they hadn’t yet managed to convert seidr into effective medicine for human bodies. At least not in any repeatable manner. 

The young Lord caught her look, silently warning her not to push the issue. His hands were trembling. He folded them across the small of his back, straightening his shoulders. 

Their tour was over. 

Natasha’s lips pursed, but her eyes were too perceptive, tracking Tony’s movements, the way he faltered when turning too quickly, the way his fingers tightened around his walking stick until the leather cracked, the way he averted his eyes a bit too much to be masked entirely by the dark glasses. 

He knew what she saw, and she knew he knew. 

But then, it had always been that way between them, a game of guessing and truths, of secrets tacitly acknowledged then ignored. 

This time, though, Natasha broke the pattern. Delicaly placing the tips of her gloved fingertips on Tony’s coat sleeve, she stopped him in his tracks and stared him down steadily. 

“Tony. Don’t become a specter. I would rather not have to call a seance in order to see you next.” 

Anthony felt himself grow cold at those words. They were a warning disguised as a friendly request. He watched her, frozen,  _ stricken.  _

Or perhaps she was only speaking of his deathly pallor and fevering demeanor. 

She smiled as though to alleviate the harshness of her previous words, her lips red as blood and showing him tales of long buried misdeeds. 

“Should you need help, you can always call on me. You are not as alone as you seem to think.” 

As warmed as he was by the sentiment, it did little to disperse the chill that had taken over his soul, visions of long winters covered in snow and red hair, drops of blood staining small child-like hands. 

He shook the thought off, offering his Lady Widow a polite smile and a politically correct answer. It was not a rejection, though any others would take it as one. But Natasha knew him well. This was an ‘I shall consider it.’ 

That was enough for her to nod and consider the matter closed. The offer was now in Anthony’s hands, to decide to do as he willed. Possibly to ponder upon it in peace, when his head was no longer splitting open. 

Or until he grew so desperate that there was no other recourse for him but seek the Widow’s help. And hope that whatever price she would seek from him was one he could pay without losing his soul in her claws. 

Perhaps it was unkind to think of her thusly, but the Lady Natasha was not a woman to be underestimated, and too much caution in his case was probably better than a stay at the Tower. 

He considered himself quite lucky already that, whatever she had seen from him, she had decided to keep to herself. 

Natasha  _ did not  _ gossip. She however  _ listened _ to other people’s tales, quite subtly at that, but nonetheless she always knew many more secrets than she divulged. Indeed, her little black book was most certainly one of her most deadly weapons. 

And strangely enough, she’d appeared to take a liking to him. Perhaps it was because he feared her so, and never underestimated her due to her gender or delicate features. Or it might be his friendship with Clinton. 

Regardless, he found himself feeling relieved as they walked back to the main room, where Clinton had actually removed his shirt entirely, showing off his tattoo-covered back and arms. 

A server passing by their side offered them a glass of alcohol. Tony took one, more for appearances sake than not. He used to drink, at least as much as his fellows. These days, he did his best to abstain. 

No, Anthony found himself much more impressed and intrigued by the sight presented to him. There were quite a few more inks on those strong arms than there had been the last time he’d come. Some of the arts were of entirely foreign influences to him and he wondered  _ wherever _ his friend had been to find such curious art. 

His hands were itching with curiosity, wanting to touch, to feel, to recognize, and he berated himself firmly for such unseemly desires. 

There were tattooed lines adorning his skin as well, hidden under his gloves, clusters of signs and symbols he’d painstakingly composed, patterns arrayed in a manner that made the most sense to him. They adorned him up to the elbow, and he’d somehow never dared putting more of them. 

Clinton’s collection was most impressive, and quite fascinating. 

It almost made him want to pick a few of these designs for himself. He could almost feel the slow burning of the needle carving into him, carefully etching into his skin the new lines, sigils, symbols and words of power from those far away places. 

The heady feeling, almost like drunkenness, the way his mind flew, detached from his mortal flesh, that delicious floaty feeling where the only thing still tethering him to reality was the steady burn of the needle… 

His fingers were itching with need, the warm taste of tobacco curling against the back of his throat, the fumes from the alcohol exhilarating. 

He drank from his glass, just as sip to occupy his idle hands and distract his mind from dangerous waters. 

The Brandy was delicious of course as anything finding its way to the Widow’s Keep was won’t to be, the burn delicious against his throat, reminding him of his wild years of inebriation and rebellion. 

But there was a really good reason for him not to have touched the drink since that time. 

Hurriedly, he put the glass down, turning to Natasha’s too clever eyes. Leaving like that would probably confirm everything she’d been suspecting but it was much better than the alternative. 

Her carefully guarded gaze and unsurprised countenance made him wonder how much of that was planned, but he could not worry about it at that time. 

“Lady Natasha. I must go. Now.” 


	9. I4- Single Word Prompt: Confusion

Already the world was coming in and out of focus. He could hear Natasha’s pleads for him to stay the night, the entreaty to use one of the board rooms there exactly for that purpose, not to come out in the rain in that state. 

It was useless, he knew. He could not, in any manner at all, lose control amongst so many people. He could not afford to. 

His thoughts were blurring already. He could feel himself fading quickly, but he knew,  _ knew,  _ he had to get away from there. 

He needed to be back in his sanctuary, to be safe. 

“...eeds to stay he...”

Natasha’s voice faded in and out of his consciousness, and he could hear her growing steadily more worried, almost  _ frantic. _

“...not even  _ standing!” _

That wasn’t right. 

Natasha was always cool, calm, collected. 

It didn’t make sense. 

Nothing made sense. His head felt heavy. He was still standing, or slumping. 

Everything felt loud, too loud. 

Hands reached out from him and he flinched away, images of falling,  _ falling, broken glass, an arrow never missing its mark... A man falling backward, blood stains, jumping out a window with a grapple...  _

“CLINTON! Get away!”

The hands left, leaving being blissful blackness, but the buzz wasn’t stopping, never decreasing. 

It was a constant rushing in his mind, voices, shouts, murmurs.  _ Rumors, so many, gossip, not making sense… _

“Sssh, sshhh, Tony, I’m here, listen to me.”

Hands framed his face, gloved in mourning black and blissfully cool against his feverish skin. 

“I can help you Tony, I can, but it won’t last. You need to give me your consen…” 

The world faded to black, a wave of agony crushing through him. Echoes of wheels crunching the gravel, wheels bumping over cobblestones, street sellers harping about their wares.  _ Roasted nuts! Beef jerky! Bamn that bloody squeaky wheel! _

“...t. Tony, listen! I can’t help unless you…”

_ Tony was drowning, he would not build these, they were his, what right did they have to ask him, they pulled his head out of the water and he gulped in sweet sweet air, his face was dripping, there was water sparking against the battery casing…  _

“...Clinton, he’s not respondin…”

_ They’d been his nightmare for so long, kept him cowering and captive, they’d taken everything from him, his dignity, his faith, but now they would pay,  _ he _ would be  _ their _ nightmares, he was getting out of there, all guns blazing, and hell yeah, fire and brimstone…  _

“I don’t know Nat! It was just regular booze, what els…”

_ He knew she’d been talking to her friends about them, but marriage? He was not ready for marriage! Would he still be able to come to the Keep once he got married? Surely the Lady Natasha would not bat her lashes at him so coquettishly anymore if he was a taken man... _

“...couldn’t have known…”

_ The ratio of glass panes to wrought iron structure, size of bolts, counterweights and crossed beams, weight of bearing to possible height, but what about insulation? What if the glass panes were doubled? What would it do if the light could traverse but the cold had to go through two layers in order to… _

“...never had such an extreme cas…”

Pain. 

Tony shook his head feeling his cheek burn, his head thrown to the side. He blinked, to the sight of a breathless Natasha, eyes wide and panicked, and Clinton, shirtless but with hands covered with towels up to the forearm. 

A glance around showed him he was in the anteroom, back amongst the private collection of oddities. 

Why was he there? But then, perhaps it was only appropriate. 

Tony felt very much the freak at the moment. 

His mind was still foggy, still slow, like molasses, but he could see Nat and Clint, and the were… his friends? Maybe? 

“Tony, you must listen. I don’t know how long you’ll stay lucid, but you refused to stay here. I can help you suppress it for one hour. Do you have a safe place to go to? Do you allow me to help you?”

Tony gasped a breath. He felt as though he’d held been underwater, holding his breath for too long. He could breath now, a little. He was still choking. 

The buzz was still there, in the back of his mind an echo of the storm waiting just beyond the surface of whatever was keeping it at bay at the moment. 

“Tony?”

Words blurred behind his eyes, thoughts scrambling to catch up on what was happening. What was real, what was illusion, what was he supposed to know and what knowledge was he supposed not to be privy to? 

What had Nat asked him already? The words played back through his mind, like ghostly apparitions slithering through his mind. 

“Yes. I.. have a place I can be safe. I… thank you for your concern, Lady Natasha.” 

A strange expression crossed her face, beautiful features contorted in something akin to grief. 

“That’s fine, Tony. We need to take care of each other when no one else seems likely to. Will you allow me to help you?” 

His mind felt like molasses, slow and unwieldy, but he could still recognize the tacit admission for what it was. The widow was like him in some way, and the opposite in others. 

And she offered to dampen his affliction… for a time. 

And perhaps…

“At what price?” 

The smile that crossed the Lady’s face was nothing less than wry, if still tragic. 

“No more of one than what you would give on your own will. Discretion. The maintenance of our mutual good reputation. Allow Clinton here to escort you back to your residence. Take care of yourself if you will not allow us to.”

Tony blinked, flabbergasted at what was basically a boon at no cost. This was unheard of, in their world made of half truths and favors traded and secrets carefully recorded in turn. 

“We are your friends, Tony. Even if you don’t trust us yet.”

Tony—Anthony shivered, the words resounding like truth, like a vow. He wondered if Natasha was aware of what she had just done. A promise of friendship was no small thing for one of their kind. 

Perhaps, he could bring himself to believe them. At least this far. 

“Then, Natasha, you may… work your magic.”

Tony let his smile show, boyish and charming in a way he knew it would make her smile and perhaps erase the wrecked guilt from her countenance. 

He knew what she’d tried to do. Knew, because he’d tried it himself the last time he’d had a drop of alcohol in his veins. 

After all, drink, like drugs loosened the holds one had upon their mind, the boundaries and limits they put. 

And inebriation, amongst people of their kind of affliction tended to…  _ reveal _ the true nature of what their minds held. What they could  _ do.  _

And, in Tony’s case, it was absolutely disastrous. 

He didn’t know of anyone else with that strong a reaction. It was a honest mistake. 

Now the widow and her guardsman both knew. 

And then they’d let him in their secret in turn. 

Muddled as he was, Tony— _ Anthony!— _ still knew to trust those nebulous feelings that more often than not were founded in more than a fair bit of knowledge he should not be privy to. 

Should not, could not. 

The world started blurring again, more and more, waves of informations crushing him, words, spoken in tongues he could not decipher, formulae he could not find a context for but knew where accurate nonetheless, eddies and currents of life all around them…

Tony gasped, holding his breath as though it could possibly  _ help… _

And then the silence came. 

It was deafening, almost as disorienting as chaos had been, the sudden absence of a sense he’d learn to begrudgingly rely on. 

There was nothing, nothing anymore. 

Was he dead? Did he become normal again? Natasha’s was echoing strangely around his ears, empty of the  _ essence _ of who she was. 

What was happening? 

Dread gripped Tony’s chest, some manner of horror at how terribly  _ bereft _ he felt, how absurdly  _ naked. _

If thus was the Lady Widow’s power, it was a fearsome thing indeed. 

Tony never wanted to feel that way again.

His head was ringing, crumbling under the all powerful  _ silence. _ What should have been a blessing was only a greater strain, as he strained, over and over, to find his footing again, to  _ feel  _ what was just not there anymore. 

Tony trembled, his shoulders shaking with restrained sobs as terror gripped him. He was  _ lost, so terribly lost… _

Hands gripped his arm and he flinched back, shock snapping him out of the downward spiral the emptiness had sent him too. 

It was Clinton. His shirt was on again, appearance respectable, ready to head out. He didn’t have glove. 

Tony hadn’t felt him, hadn’t even  _ recognized him.  _

His breaths were short and panicked, but he could recognize the debilitating pain in his head was lessening. He could think, if poorly. He could, perhaps, move. For a time. 

Clinton was going to see him back home. To the Sanctuary. The Widow’s bite would fade. The noise would return. 

He forced himself to breathe, to stand. Shakily. Clinton offered him his support, holding him up in a manner that didn’t look overly conspicuous. 

Tony spared a thought to be grateful, sending a self deprecating smile in his old friend’s way. 

The one Clint answered with was wry, outwardly amused though Tony could suspect the serious undercurrents...even though he could no longer  _ feel _ them. 

How crippling was it, to have one’s abilities so utterly...silenced. 

But Clint was good about it, keeping up a steady stream of meaningless chatter, filling up the terrible,  _ awful _ stillness in his mind. Tony hung onto it like starving man being first presented with food after having walked through the desert. 

He chanced a glance at the Widow. Natasha. Who had done that to him, and yet asked beforehand. And yet done so only so that he could go home, like he’d asked to. 

She looked a fright, her pale skin turned deathly white, her eyes too wide and too wet. 

Perhaps the extent of her power’s effects had been as amplified as the alcohol’s. As was usually the case with him. Those things tended to compound. 

Tony offered her as grateful a smile as he was able to, aware that he his appearance was probably even more ghastly than her own, but still wishing to do what he could to alleviate her concern. 

He would deal with the knowledge that they had basically ambushed and tricked him into revealing his status...later. And he would use his personal methods to insure he wasn’t being lied to or used at that time. 

Until that time he clung to the promise of friendship Natasha had spoken, on hers and Clint’s behalf. 

He only received a solemn nod in return, before the Lady pulled herself together, fixing her appearance and recovering her lost decorum. Tony had always been impressed by that ability of hers. 

He turned away, knowing better to let himself get lost in his fascination with the enigma that she was, leaning on Clint’s shoulder and attempting to walk by his own power. 

He failed. 

There was a shiver just under his skin, an itch, for all the knowledge that he knew was around and could no longer access, the warmth of Clint’s skin ringing hollow under his sweaty palm, and when had his gloves gone? 

Tony was shaking, he was  _ falling apart,  _ but what could he do? 

He had to go home. He had t… 

The road was moving, the stalls and the people, and there was a few shopfronts there. It was rushing by so fast and the window was cold. Too cold? 

He was shivering. 

It was the London fog, surely, drizzles and downpours, all that wetness everywhere, why was he there again? 

The leather felt sof under his hand, and there was a warm weight against his arm, something comforting. 

That was Clint. Warmth, tricks, serious,  _ goodness Tony, what did you get yourself into, how is it always on you that those things happen to? He’s still breathing, pulse steady, eyes unresponsive, I’m not trained to keep comatose people alive, Nat! _

It was wearing off already. 

What was? 

The rumble under him was his nyddthil engine, purring gently as it did whenever Hogan drove her. He’d always had a good hand with those. 

The rain was tapping gently against the roof, a pitter patter that was incredibly soothing to his tired mind, but something was telling him not to sleep yet. He couldn’t,  _ should not, _ but he could not remember why. 

Not safe, perhaps? Clint was there, Clint felt safe...

But  _ he _ wasn’t. 

What…

Jarvis was there, worried Jarvis, Jarvis was always worried, he should take more care of himself, his Jarvis was precious. Tony had a dream once that Jarvis had died and Tony had had to bind his spirit to a construct of wires and electrical charges, and woven him into his walls, everyone of them so that Tony never went anywhere without him. 

“That sounds very good, young master, but you need to come inside now.” 

Jarvis was terrified, Jarvis should not worry so much. 

Wasn’t Clint there? 

This place.. It looked a lot like his home. Was he home? Had he been there? 

Something was smooth under his hands, beside the warm presence of Jarvis. Not the same sense-touch. This was tactile sensation. Satin? 

His sheets? 

The world was loud around him, the low rumble of thunder roiling that only he could hear. His coat was removed, his boots. 

Jarvis was always there for him, his mind so comfortable, so warm, so organized. 

So efficient. 

The shutters fell down over the window. Nullifiers, he remembered them, had built them himself. Knew their sound like he knew his own mind. 

But did he  _ know _ his own mind? 

Like he knew Jarvis’s mind. He’d built it, after all, one line of code after the other, raising him from a simple address book to the wonderful being he’d become. 

What code? Cyphers?

Nullifiers. Pulled down, like blinds, when his mind went highwire, went he needed the quiet. 

Not the mute horror brought by Nat’s bite. 

Shelter, safe.

Strong enough to resist even his own abilities. 

He breathed in, out. 

It made sense now. 

Nothing made sense but it was normal. Not him going crazy. 

He was safe. 

The world quietened, only familiar echoes remained. 

Tony let himself fade into oblivion. 


	10. N1- AU: Psychic/Empathetic

When Anthony woke, he felt better. 

He could at least think coherently, and understand what was real from what was not. 

He could differentiate much better between himself and other minds he  _ was not.  _

He still did not dare come out of his sheltered room. He would rather not try his luck with the rambling crush of thoughts and memories and feelings waiting for him outside. 

Of course that did not apply to Pepper. 

She’d come while he was still unconscious, bringing with her what medication could help and her own expertise. 

She was one of two people who knew about him. Well, she had been. 

Tony supposed that number was now quite larger. 

Pepper Potts was an empath. Her psi count was low, which left her able to walk around unhindered so long as she checked with a government official of the Bureau of Mind Skills twice a year, to insure her shielding was still in good order, and that she had not used her powers in a malicious manner.

But empaths were generally left well enough alone, and considered rather useless and harmless by the Bureau. 

More fools they, since Pepper was a truly terrifying woman, especially when in a strop. 

There was a reason Anthony hesitated greatly to introduce her to the Lady Widow, and it wasn’t the keeping of his secrets. 

No, Pepper was a force of nature by her character, but also by her incredible skill of organization and compartmentalization. 

She had honed her power like a fine blade, masterfully using it at will and never letting it take the slightest amount of control over her thought process. 

And, while she’d never deliberately influenced people, as was the law, she had nonetheless made her skill invaluable in negotiations, as a way to read the room and present  _ herself _ in whichever manner was most adequate to obtain exactly what she wanted. 

Jarvis, on the other hand possessed some small mnemonic ability, along with some clairvoyance. The latter was quite the coveted skill, especially for a butler, as it helped know where he needed to be, and where his skills would be needed. 

The ability was not terribly intrusive, from what Tony had gathered, only letting him see a couple hours in the past or future, or into the present of those he was especially close too. Those few included Tony, of course, his wife Anna, and the three servants he’d taken under his wing. 

Which probably explained how Jarvis knew what Tony needed when he came back the previous day. 

Along with Miss Potts’ presence there. 

Jarvis’s skill had been requested by the Bureau, once upon a time. He’d been part of their Intelligence for a decade before an unfortunate accident made Jarvis unable to serve any longer. 

Tony knew that, of course, even though Jarvis had never told him. 

Tony knew that, because he knew  _ everything. _

There were many a kind of psychic ability, and Tony didn’t know the extent of  _ what _ he had. He only knew that it was too much. Too much for a single person to possibly parse through, to contain, to understand. 

He, like Jarvis, could know from a single touch the history of an object. Mnemonic ability could be useful, but to that extent it only meant that the only objects he touched with his bare hands were those his butler had personally vetted previously, it meant that he never left the house without gloves, never removed them, never let his quick and curious fingers free reign. 

It also meant that he could know from the brush of a single finger  _ which _ of the papers from Fury’s office were real, and which were faked. By whose hands they’d been signed, with what intent. 

But only if he wanted to end in a comatose state for days, trapped in centuries of memories from the making of the paper itself, the ink, the machine building it, the trees…

And that was only one aspect of it. The least bothersome, in truth. 

Because while the Bureau didn’t discriminate overmuch against low level empaths, they certainly looked closely upon those who had both the ability to feel and  _ influence _ the minds and feelings of others. 

He’d always been careful, of course, he’d never used his ability consciously, but how could he truly know what reach his powers had? 

He wore dark glasses to remove the flickering images he saw in his periphery, and to tune down his perception of people’s aura, the passive reading he got from anyone. He avoided skin contact lest he be assaulted with their life stories, thoughts and feelings. And even then, their internal monologue was always a background hum against his mind, pressing against him from all sides, crushing him. 

He felt crippled. 

His formerly free-spirited youth now constrained to a small place he was prowling, a lion in a zoo, a new piece in a freak collection. 

And neither of those explained those strange visions he saw sometimes that made no sense. People who were him but not, people he knew, yet  _ not. _

He had tried to separate the in his mind, to define  _ his _ people in a different manner from  _ them,  _ but he didn’t know how successful he’d been. 

Sometimes he dreamed of faraway places, sometimes of impossible technology. Sometimes he saw through the corner of his eyes, ghosts of events and people long past his time. The words, the facts, the formulae, they came to him, and he  _ understood them, _ but there was nothing around him that could possibly sustain them. Those inventions were decades or maybe even  _ centuries _ ahead of his time. 

Sometimes they terrified him.

He had learned to control it, or at least  _ tried.  _

Simply removing the stimulus was only a place-holder measure. No longer touching people from fear of simply falling into their brains and never finding his way out was well and good, but he couldn’t  _ live _ like that, and he knew it. 

His tattoos had helped, strangely enough, the designs guided somehow by those strange unfathomable ideas that sometimes drove him. They had served as a focus of sorts; had made it possible for him to consciously use his skills for the first time instead of simply being swept away by the flood. 

It had given him hope, courage enough to reach out to Miss Potts. 

He’d always trusted her, and respected her, from those strange half dreams he had. But he’d never have thought that she could care so much. 

She was sitting by his side when he woke up, as proper as she always was, her face serious, yet kind. 

She was always kind. Even as powerful and competent as she was, it never stopped her from showing her warmth, her sensibility. 

Tony greatly admired her. 

Which was why he didn’t protest their review of breathing and visualisation exercises, or the long mantras he was supposed to recite by heart. He let he attempt guide him into meditation once again, feeling the calm and serenity she was deliberately broadcasting for his sake. He let himself sink into it, soaking up her sense of control, of self mastery. 

Slowly, he started feeling himself again. 

And as she slipped in her meditative trance, he felt himself sinking along, pulled down by the steady and captivating frequency her mind took in that state, the way everything just  _ stilled,  _ even as the rest of the world kept spinning around her.

It was soothing. His mind finally slowing down, a small respite from the constant torrent of information drowning him in.

Like shutting off the faucet before the bathtub overflowed. 

He didn’t know how long they drifted, how long Miss Pott’s influence kept him under, but when he opened his eyes next, the sun was low in the sky. 

Pepper was seated quite primly in a corner of the room, her embroidery work in hand as she carefully stitched beautiful patterns through thin points of color over the cream cloth. Tony—Anthony never asked her what it was. He rather thought it was her own way of calming her nerves. Perhaps her needlepoint was her own sanctuary, her own laboratory. Perhaps it was something else, a learned, ingrained thing that became so much second nature that it became soothing. 

It hardly mattered, in the end, and it was too personal a query for a gentleman to ask a lady. 

However, this time it seemed that Miss Potts’ careful workings did not bring her their usual peace, for her movements were sharp and jerky instead of smooth and careful. 

A careful probe of his empathy sent him reeling at the waves of frustration and helplessness pouring from his friend, and the undercurrent of apprehension he could find there put him immediately on edge.

Snapping her head up at the intrusion, Governess Pepper Potts sent him a wrathful glare before swaddling away all traces of errant feeling, leaving him only a blank fog to guess at. 

Anthony winced, preparing to make some apologies when she deflated, something sorrowful leaking from her careful shielding, as her blue eyes softened. 

She looked truly sorry and Tony found himself wary of what manner of terrible news she would be bringing him. 

“I can’t help you anymore, Tony.”

He straightened, alarmed, trying to understand what she was telling him. She couldn’t be leaving him, could she? 

His eyes glimpsed the corner of a blood stained handkerchief bunched next to his chamber pot, and a dreadful suspicion dawning upon him. 

“Miss Potts,” he said, eyes trained upon the bloody cloth, “are you… have you taken ill?”

“What?” 

The genuine surprise in her voice, along with the puzzled note allowed Anthony to face her again. The shock of the question seemed to have dislodged her previous melancholy mood, for she seemed much more lively in her answer. 

Seeing her follow the line of his gaze and the comprehension dawning on her was what finally allowed his to relax, a rush of relief flowed through him as he figured that it truly  _ wasn’t _ tuberculosis. Because while physicians  _ had _ been working toward the synthesis of a cure, and using seidr based knowledge to do it, their attempts had all been either less than satisfactory or not yet usable upon humans. 

He would not see his governess fall to it. 

Thankfully, it didn’t seem that it would be the case. 

“No, Tony, no!” 

She half laughed, eyes teary. 

“I am not sick. I mean, it is not the consumption. But… Tony. That doesn’t change what I said.”

Anthony looked at her for a moment, uncomprehending. Why, then, would she leave him thus? 

A more careful look showed no wounded fingers, no trace of a wound that would be dabbed by a kerchief… but upon her face, small crusts of dried blood, not upon her lips, but right under her nostril, and on the lobe of an ear…

Anthony recoiled, horror gripping him as he realized what must have happened, what he must have been responsible for. 

He had never wanted to hurt anyone, least of all one of his dearest friends. 

“...Pepper…”

She averted her eyes, shame coloring her countenance. 

Anthony could not let that stand. 

“I am sorry Pepper. Of course your health is more important than whatever concerns I may have.” 

He cleared his throat. It felt too tight suddenly but he knew that it was only fair of him to speak his next words, that he owed it to his governess for her most devoted service. 

“Clearly, you have behaved yourself most excellently and you are truly an exemplary, extraordinary woman. Should you wish to take leave of my household, I shall write you a most complimentary recommendation letter. I do hope that you will not think too ill of me for that matter, but I would not dare to ask you to stay on my behalf should you feel yourself uncomfortable with such.” 

He clenched his eyes shut, feeling as though he had just pronounced his own sentencing and the gallows were waiting before him. 

He couldn’t stop himself from adding one last thing, however. 

“Of course should you wish to remain here, you will always have a home under my roof.” 

“Oh Tony…”

Soft hands cradled his face, making his eyes blink back open. Only Pepper ever brought that kind of vulnerability from him. She was looking at him with her gentle eyes, something soft in her voice as she gently berated him. 

“Of course I’m not leaving you. But my empathy is not enough to keep your powers contained anymore, it’s not enough to help you find control. You should have known you could not rely on me forever, Tony. This is your mind, your power. I cannot be your crutch.”

Anthony shivered. He knew she was right. He’d known for a while, and this was only ever supposed to have been a temporary measure. When the onset of his powers had come, as daunting and unmanageable as they were, he had seeked her so that he could have the temporary relief necessary in order to be able to build sufficient boundaries within his mind. It had begun as a way not to feel himself fall apart all the time and the temporary support needed to build himself. 

But any attempts he’d had at building the structure Pepper had described, any time he’d tried to follow her advice, the guided steps she’d made for him, those that she’d attempted to tailor to his strange hodge-podge blend of too many sensibilities, too many abilities, none had worked. 

It had been an exercise in futility, a truly remarkable manner for him to rise to untold levels of frustration. 

It did seem that for him, truly holding control over his own mind was an impossible feat. 

And now his last anchor was gone.

Jarvis was still there, of course, and he had always been a great source of calm and serenity. Steadfast, reliable Jarvis, who always made sure everything was taken care of, everything that needed to be done was, that the household ran smoothly, like a well-oiled machine, nothing out of place and nothing missing. All that with his usual serene and careful manner, making sure none were uncomfortable or overworked, that no worked went hungry or harmed. 

No, his butler had always been a blessing, and never moreso than now that Anthony felt himself crumbling to pieces. 

Without he and Pepper, the young Stark Lord would have gone mad years ago, lost in visions so vivid he could not separate them from reality. 

He would have either ended up in a sanatorium under the shocks or enrolled as a weapon of mass destruction in Her Majesty’s Army. Or perhaps even both. 

“Tony.”

Pepper looked at him, unimpressed by his spiraling thoughts, serious as ever in her countenance. 

Miss Potts never let herself be defeated, he remembered. The strange sight of her clad in fire and scandalously scant clothing made him blink, but he knew those odd visions of his showed him times where fashion was different, where women were mostly independent and educated. 

Looking at his friend’s serious face, her determination and shrewdness, he could certainly believe her more than capable of such. 

“Tony, whether or not I stay doesn’t change the fact that I can’t help you with my empathy anymore. It’s getting too much for me. Next time, it might just be stronger than I can bear and then we’d  _ both _ end up trapped in an empathic loop. And then we’ll either starve to death or take out the entire quadrant as someone comes in and tries to separate us. At best we might both end up catatonic. Tony,  _ this cannot go on.” _

Anthony shuddered at the desperation in Pepper’s voice. 

She was right, of course. He knew that. Knew the risks. 

And had gambled with both their lives anyway. 

He felt wretched, like the lowest of cads for having taken advantage of the lady’s kindness in such a dangerous manner. 

This illness was of his mind, and as it was still worsening, it was his responsibility to deal with it. 

Pepper’s brow furrowed in worry as she felt the maelstrom of his emotions lashing out unexpectedly. Guilt, horror, fear, anger, self-loathing, determination. He recognized them, felt their echo against his ruined control, felt Pepper’s empathy recoil from the onslaught of negativity. 

He needed help. Actual help, not the patch-up that came from a friend’s kind shoulder, not the kind words and encouragement of those he considered family. 

He needed actual instruction. Professional help. 

_ Actual long term solutions.  _

He couldn’t keep putting his head in the sand anymore. 

But that meant coming clean about his abilities, and he had no desire to be drafted. 

Did he even have a choice though? 

Or was his options death from his own mind killing him, or death on a battlefield?


	11. B3- Single Word Prompt: Getaway

Whenever Tony needed to stop thinking, he went to the workshop. There, his hands could run away with him, guiding him along in this dance of creation, melting and twisting and shaping the world around him. His mind came loose, drifting along metal memories, unformed flickers of heat and impacts, a strange kind of music that echoed with hard drums and screaming voices. 

He could repeat old movements from craftsmen of ages past, learn their skills and hear their voices guiding his hands, their secrets passed down orally from generations and lost to the ages since. He could remember the first time they’d been born, the trials and errors, the legacies of experience that he could just tap into.  It was the invention of the wheel all over again, the triumph when iron became steel and the knife held instead of broke. The cleverness of levers being figured out, Chinese methods of melting and pouring metals, incas workings of stone and gold, the serenity of Vanir mages infusing power stones, the harnessing of star power by the dwarves and the working of uru. 

He could invent himself, new things and wonders, let his fingers move and shape in new, unexplored ways, and his mind showed him an infinite manner of possibilities, futures new and old, places where his new creation could thrive and change the way people lived, other scientists expanding upon his findings, bringing him even further. There were infinite possibilities in those far-away futures, just there for the taking. 

Sometimes, his metal creations became imbued with thoughts and feelings of their own, each with very distinct personalities. There was an automaton sweeper robot that was remarkably clumsy and...quirky, that he’d called dummy. 

It had seemed to fit as a place-holder at first. But upon learning of his bot’s counterpart in those dreams, he’d decided to keep the name. DUM-E. His terrible useless robot child. 

Another terrible bot was U. The little thing had been supposed to file his papers and managed to misplace the letter he’d been penning to Mssrs Péligot and Becquerel about the possible uses and handling of Uranium. The ridiculous thing had filed it down in the ‘U’ folder, which, while not completely illogical  _ per se…  _ was not entirely easy to find while looking for the names of the recipients. 

Since then, the little scamp had shown an incomprehensible fascination for that single letter, and Tony didn’t really have any issue to name the little automaton ‘U’. 

And if he noticed the parallels with another creation from another Tony Stark? Well it couldn’t really be helped. 

Nonetheless, the workshop was never lacking in distractions, little things to catch and hold his attention and let him be lost in his world for hours. 

So whenever he wanted, or  _ needed _ to stop thinking, he went down there, to the shop that was also a laboratory, to a place as chaotic as his mind, so loud that it drowned out everything else. 

When he was inventing, he lost himself. 

And whenever he needed to  _ think?  _

Then he went to the garden. 

It was a great solarium, an iron wrought greenhouse with thick glass panels, set against the back of the townhouse and rising up to two levels. There was an opening to it from behind his room, a small metal balcony that connected to the metal walkways, and ended in a spiraling staircase in the middle of the fragrant jungle that grew there. 

It was Jarvis’ pride and joy, and he had carefully cultivated the grounds and flower beds until anything he wanted could grow. 

It was an absurd impossible thing, a strange blend of many different things, flowers and fruits, living in wet climates or desert ones, sparkling, glowing, spiky, spotted, opening in day or night, but always blooming. 

Fragrant and colorful flowers strung along rope like stalks, sweet small things covering the ground, acrobatic things stuck on great tree trunks. 

Greenery that wasn’t always green, but sometimes red or purple or yellow, spiked or soft, satiny or silky. Mosses and lichens, some incredible mushrooms. 

A stream was coursing through and small ponds and falls and fountains gurgled merrily whenever Anthony was there. 

There was always something new to see in Jarvis’ domain, and the young Lord never skimped on the expenses to let his dear butler compose to his heart’s content. Which included buying seeds and fetching sproutlings from across the world, or even from the next realm over. 

Anthony didn’t know how Jarvis did it, had no clue how he managed especially since many of these plants were supposed to be unable to cohabitate, let alone survive in London’s less than welcoming climate. Even making these things _survive_ seemed impossible, let alone having them thrive and adapt as they did to this hodge-podge patchwork of a garden. 

And yet Jarvis had succeeded, and the result was wondrous. 

Sometimes, Anthony suspected that Jarvis could speak to plants they same way himself spoke to metals. Maybe as a mutation from his mnemotism. Or clever uses of clairvoyance?

Or perhaps it was simply the passion he poured into it, his time and energy, his usual careful attention to detail, the way he searched for information and corresponded with famous botanists all over the realms. 

Anthony recognized there some of his own traits. Except that he was much much messier than his old friend. 

He could see his butler’s orderliness and care in each of the carefully composed wildness of those colorful clumps of vegetation, his sense for composition and aesthetic tastes. 

It was...peaceful. 

The garden greenhouse was the only place he could truly feel at peace, that deep quiet state that usually only came when Miss Potts forcefully pulled him under. 

This was serenity, but in a conscious state. 

It was priceless in and of itself, though Tony tried not to abuse it. 

It was his getaway. 

He went there after Pepper left. 

He needed to think, to plan. He needed his mind to be in control of himself, of his thoughts. 

To lick his wounds. 

Knowing what he didn’t want was easy. He’d heard the horror stories since he was old enough to understand spoken word. 

He didn’t want to be  _ tagged,  _ to become one of Her Majesty’s  _ Watchdogs,  _ or even an  _ ‘hidden ace’.  _ Didn’t want the pressure or the lack of freedom. Didn’t want a place in the frontlines where the screams of the dying and the manes of the dead slowly drove him insane until his telepathy created a psychic shock strong enough to incapacitate the enemy. 

Because that was certainly one of the possible fates of those poor sods who’d gotten themselves any sizeable amount of power. And with the clearly ridiculous accumulation of abilities that had fallen in his lap, there would certainly be quite a number of generals or intelligence officers who would salivate at the thought of having him under their thumb. The fools. 

Mayhap his position as a member of the House the Lords could help him, maybe delay or forbid any kind of force drafting. He could look into that. 

He knew he could not remain without supervision. Instruction would be best, if it was possible. 

He didn’t want to be drugged. 

He’d tried them before, in his youth. A moment of desperation had him actually pocket a few of those from the apothecary, using a mixture of clever and not that clever disguise. He’d of course left a few coins in paiement, probably much more than the few pills were worth. 

He’d spent the following few days in haziness, barely able to make sense of his own thoughts, unable of any complex motor function. 

Jarvis had the scare of his life, coming back from his trip to the botanical gardens in a rush, bringing with him the only person he’d trusted with medical expertise. 

To this day, Anthony could not think of any other time he’d seen his butler so upset. Or frazzled. 

The memory was blurry and unfocused, but he could distinctly remember his worried voice, his gentle hands, the fine tremors of fear that shook them as he swept the hair sweaty from his brow, the restless pacing by his bedside, the long vigil as Tony rode through the fever and incoherence. 

He’d been delirious, adrift, drowning on the silence and feeling so incredibly lost inside his own head, as though his mind had been emptied out of the entire Universe inside of him and there was only a speck of him left, drowning in the nothingness. There had been a gaping chasm in his mind where his power should have been, a raw wound crying out in pain, the phantom feeling like those of amputated limbs, ones that you hadn’t known were so vital, so  _ essential  _ to who you were until they had been  _ lost. _

In fact, it rather felt a lot like the time he’d spent under his Widow’s spell, but somehow  _ worse.  _ Natasha hadn’t made him feel ill. Her power hadn’t made him want to puke, hadn’t made his body start to shut down until every bit of that poison had been purged from his veins. 

Hadn’t made him want to take a hammer to his own skull if only to hear  _ something.  _

Before the fever had come and flushed the drug from his system, he’d been climbing the walls, feeling as though he was going mad, as though he’d gone  _ deaf.  _ This drug had been simply debilitating, mangling him in a manner he simply  _ knew _ would become an irreversible mutilation. 

No, this feeling was certainly not worth the ability to get back to his wild youth of partying and drinking with his fellow gentlemen. In fact it wasn’t worth anything at all. 

Not even his freedom. 

And he categorically refused to be put back under their noxious influence. Tony’s power wasn’t a day at the fair by any manner, but the mere thought of being cut from it again, in such an unnatural,  _ violating _ way, was simply horrendous. 

On the other hand, he could barely function as it was and he knew that if he hadn't been a genius and able to hold up to five different trains of thought at the same time, he wouldn't be able to function at all. In truth he'd probably be drooling in a sanatorium somewhere, drugged to the gills in order to stop the visions or injected with nullifiers twice hourly. 

And there would be no recourse on the matter. Those who went there were never heard from again. 

Tony wanted to contribute to the advancements of science, he truly did. But he would very much rather it not be as a test subject. Neither on a dissecting table nor a sanatorium.

But he had options. He had a status, he had a fortune he could draw upon… and friends and acquaintances that he could draw upon. 

However, the only solution he could see was off-world. 

Midgard has only had abilities like his own appearing in the past few centuries. Alfheim was reputed to have grown from seedlings of magic, with their long standing traditions of mage apprenticeships. Vanhanheim instead had built many an institute, each focussing on a different branch of magic.

Contrarily to Midgard who, unless they had found them to be of the useful sort, had mostly treated the emergence of those skills as diseases, to be either maintained in non-threatening levels or sedated, instead of honed and mastered as they were in most other realms. 

But Tony only knew that through his visions, his farsight showing him the barest glimpses of diligent students and awe worthy feats of magic. His own skills were nothing like that, he knew. Nothing grand, nothing showy. But those images still had potential. 

He knew, because they had always found when he’d found himself at the lowest, whenever he’d grown desperate enough to ask this monstrous entity residing in his mind  _ how _ he could ever possibly manage to live with it. 

They had been his answer, one he’d clung to and never leaped toward. 

He hated his own cowardice sometimes, hated the way he’d always convinced himself that he could deal with it, could manage it, that there were still so many things he could do, so many he still  _ needed  _ to finish. He’d swaddled himself in the false comfort of knowing that should the worst happen, Pepper could bring him back. 

What a fool he’d been, hiding behind a woman’s skirts like a coward. How unfair it had been to his Lady Pepper, asking her to assist him with his issues and chaining her down thusly. 

What a despicable cad he’d been. 

He looked down a sparkly spiraling plant that might or might not count as a flower. Cabinets of curiosities had nothing on Jarvis’ collection, truly, but this held none of the morbidly fascinating flavor those had. 

Circling his fingertips up and down the velvety slope of the yellow flower’s edge he contemplated. Asked himself, asked his sight. 

Where should he go from then. How could he fix this, fix himself and soothe down the raw tears in his mind, the crumpling control, the dashed confidence? 

And this time, as had happened all previous times he’d attempted to use his power deliberately, the storm of images crashed into him like a battering ram, making his hands spasm as he curled into himself, head splitting, nausea mounting at the onslaught. 

And like every other time, patching up the dam was an arduous and harsh process, and always much longer than it took breaking it open. 

But this time, the images felt soothing. Instead of the maelstrom of colors, a cacophony of dissonant answers spreading him thin as he tried to make sense of the infinite number of possibilities, this time… This time they seemed pretty unanimous. 

There was one path for him, one that would best give him what he had asked for. 

And as he let himself dwell on the soothing blues and whites, the glittering expanses of ice diffracting the pink light of down, somehow, graceful arching structures that spoke of ancient knowledge and new ambitions, he let himself feel reassured. Just for a moment. 

He knew where to go. 

It would just have to be enough. He would  _ make it  _ enough.

He was Tony Stark after all. 

Or rather, this time, Anthony Edward, Lord of Stark. 

They were after all, one and the same. 


	12. O2- Single Word Prompt: Seashore

Departures, on any realm and in any time, they were all the same. Those who remained were clustered on one side, looking at their loved ones with weepy eyes, and those who would leave torn between eagerness and dread, excitement and heartbreak. 

Making his farewells had not been easy. Arranging for safe passage, or even an inscription had been a hell onto its own. 

The Lady Widow had been a true blessing. 

He had no idea how she had done this, how much clout and hidden power she must have in order to make all this possible, and he knew better than to ask. 

But he knew now, somehow, that he could trust her. It had been a revelation, but not an unwelcome one. 

When Tony had first come to her trembling with disappointment and fear after finding out how truly impossible this solution was, Natasha had only looked relieved, smiling softly and telling him how happy she was that he’d searched for a way to tame his abilities. She had been overjoyed that he’d stopped letting himself follow along with the small matters of daily life instead of taking action and being the master of his own life. 

She had laid a carefully gloved palm to his cheek and assured him he would be going to his school, and simply trust her. 

The Lady Widow always looked after her friends. 

Looking out of the porthole, he wondered once more at the impossible blessing that her friendship had always been, and how glad he was to have trusted her with this. 

There might be a price to pay for this. Down the line. 

The sheer impossible feat that she’d accomplished with this almost certainly insured that the hushed whispers about her association to the Queen and her Intelligence were true. Either that or the truly dark undergrounds of the countries crime lords. 

Or both. One could never know with his Lady. 

But Anthony had no care for that. Truly, not only he would be able to live his life in full without worrying about his brain collapsing at any moment, but with his skills mastered he would actually be the one in a position of power in any negotiation. He would not be easy prey to any watchdog sent to recruit him, he would not be a desperate soul in need of any scraps thrown his way. 

No, even with strings so attached, what had been offered there could not be taken back. 

If anything, he could choose to take it as an expression of goodwill, the manner of tact that was so easily appreciated in their fair and foggy country. 

He would repay his debts like any true gentleman. 

Because he did feel grateful. 

To the Widow, who had made this possible, who had made sure he could have a room in the seairship that would soon cross the realm-gates, that he had his admittance to the Academy of Jotunheim, that he would be able to take with him all he needed. 

To Clinton who had seen him to the boat, gave him the kind of accolade they’d always used to share before Anthony started shying from any kind of touch, parting with the whisper of him no longer being alone. 

To Jarvis who had come to see him off, who had helped him pack and put his affairs in order. Who had broken protocol enough to take him into his arms, just this once. Whom he could always trust to have his best interests in mind and that he must nonetheless leave behind. 

To Pepper who had berated him for his guilt and smiled so very wide when he’d told her of his plans, who had been relieved on his behalf and excited for him. 

Even to Fury, who had gruffly told him to ‘get his ass out of his office’ and that ‘he was no simpleton and would most certainly be able to finish the sorting faster without him messing this up.’ 

He felt incredibly lucky to have so many people there for him, encouraging him. He would do his utmost not disappoint them. 

However his mind was still frayed, still healing from his previous meltdown. And as skilled and connected as Natsha had seemed to be, even she had not been able to get him a specially insulated room on the Worldcrosser. Most probably because there simply was not one. 

It was a great hulking thing that was moored on the shores of the celtic sea. They’d had to travel through England’s countrysides and even cross through Wales to get there, and indeed, as soon as he’d seen the ship, Tony had seen why. 

It was simply too big. It’s hull itself would take half the Thames, and the great balloon floating above it would certainly cause quite a few accidents should its massive bulk attempt to cross between the buildings, let alone what it would do to the Bridge. 

The steward who’d helped him get settled in had informed him that they would start their travel by sea, powered by steam engines before taking to the air as soon as they’d cleared the pass and gotten to the preferred speed. The Realm-Gates were at a very defined point in the Atlantic sky, and it could not be reached through another way. 

Anthony had trusted the man at his word. He knew little of navigation and didn’t much care to learn, and his head had already started splitting. 

Such a big ship certainly called for quite the high count of passengers. He’d glimpsed a few on the way in, many human-like, but quite a few of obvious alien origins. 

And the din grew steadily louder and harder to bear as the ship started filling in, as the crowd on the shore grew heavier and more excited. 

All their voices now clamored against his mind, pressing him in, squeezing him through a vice. Feelings of fear, of elation, of nervousness, heartbreak, hope. 

Everything was blending through his strained thoughts. He could hear them, could  _ be _ them, seeping through his mind, the crowds clustered too close looking for their loved ones, weeping openly at the prospect of separation, promising to write, to call. The passengers, hesitant or adventurous, eagerness and dread, seasickness, fear of heights, despair. 

Anthony’s tried psyche started buckling under the onslaught, bringing him to his knees as he stopped being able to make sense of his own body. Why wasn’t he on the bridge holding onto the handrails as he looked down at his dear mother? Wasn’t he down in engineering shovelling coal and Nyddthil into the machines? 

He could feel the madness slowly encroaching upon him, the multitude overcoming who he was and making him lose himself even through the many layers of lead that separated his first class cabin from the lower decks. They were all too close, inside of him, and he could not  _ get them out.  _

The gentle hum of the engines was not enough either, crawling with workers as they were, not enough life of its own. 

_ ‘Let them flow through you, around you’ _

Pepper’s words came back to mind, a lifeboat in the midst of the storm. He clung to them, letting his dwindling consciousness hang onto them, attempting desperately to make sense of them. And indeed it started working. With them as a focus, he stopped battling against the images and thoughts crowding his mind, he stopped trying to make sense of them, of himself. 

He stopped resisting, instead of making a front against the many voices, he tried instead to let himself drift  _ through _ them. He was one of them, one of many, a drop in the ocean. 

But slowly the words started dissolving, leaving in tatters as his drifting started fogging his mind, driving him to a place beyond words, beyond thoughts. 

He could feel himself start to panic, grasping at something that would focus him enough to keep himself sane through the travel and still let him bring his mind back to his body afterwards. 

His power caught onto something, something foreign and yet familiar. He had felt something similar when he’d last touched ink with bare hands, and seeped through its memory all the way back until it had been sea. 

He was listening to her then, and once again his mind snagged on its greatness, it’s endlessness, its slow current, so very soothing. 

It was old, maybe even as old as the world itself, and alive in a way that was entirely unexpected. It  _ breathed,  _ waves crashing onto the shore, lapping gently at the sand before retreating as easily as it came, in and out, slow waves like heartbeats, large tides like deep breaths. 

It was a gentle giant, peaceful for now, though he’d heard stories of its wrath, of its moods, of its passionate surges sinking ships deep into its belly, and the way it could quieten back down just as fast. 

And indeed, he could feel that power purring against his mind, his soul, embracing him, drowning him in the most peaceful of ways. The cacophony of the ship growing ever dimmer as he lost himself in the sea’s gentle embrace, slowly lulled into a peaceful rest, his mind sheltered under the powerful currents. 

And when he opened his eyes again, power still fully focused upon the mercurial entity, he felt his mind clear for the first time in… to long. 

He was still thrown by the experience, the calm presence of something commonly thought of as inanimate, the intensity of its deep rumbles echoing though him, centuries of memories, of waves and tides, of ships and storms, of seafarers and port cities, of the way they shaped the shore, traveled the world, changed their shape and reformed, always and ever. 

He hadn’t known he could feel something as abstract as water, not directly. He’d felt echoes before, of trees, of sea, through his mnemotism, as the origin of all things, as a part of their stories. Never had it been as clear, as distinct, as though he was listening to  _ their minds. _

Testing his theory, he looked through his bag for a lighter, and swiped his thumb over the mechanism, lighting a small flame. 

And sure enough, he could hear,  _ feel,  _ its sleepy murmur, it’s eagerness, its playful joy. 

And now that he was listening, the small terrarium of succulents that Jarvis had given him as a parting gift was  _ alive _ as well, echoing against his mind with gentle and kind tones, the affection that Jarvis felt for him having seeped into them, the deep hum of peace and contentment. It was discreet but soothing, and Tony could feel his lips curving into an involuntary smile, eyes wet with emotion at hearing so plainly the care that his dear butler had shown him, the ways his gift seemed to ring so gently against his soul. 

But, while Anthony liked it, enjoyed it even, and had found solace in this new ability, he could not fail to see the implications of this new gift. 

It was a good thing that he was leaving Midgard.

He could feel a flash of fear slipping down his spine as he shut the lighter close, eyes closing as he inhaled deeply. 

That was a new development, and as grateful as he felt for it, for the peace it had provided him, he could not help but dread the ever expansion of his abilities, the way he only kept obtaining new ones before he’d even grown used to the previous. 

Hopefully, the Academy would help him, and give him the tools to handle any new ability coming his way. 

Otherwise, he had no hope left.


	13. O5- AU: Academia

Climbing off the great sled, bundled in as many furs as a human body could safely move around in, Tony took in the great building he would be residing in for the foreseeable future. 

It was the shining jewel of Jotunheim’s capital, a project entirely spearheaded by the Crown Prince; or so his guide had told him. Tony wondered how much of those tales had been true. For a monarch, or any of the royal family to put their hands on something so mundane as a school, even one attracting interrealm students of magic. For one of blue blood—though perhaps he should use the term with more moderation considering the deep cobalt hue of his guide’s skin—to actually  _ participate _ in anything’s actual construction. 

The architecture was magnificent, impressive ice spires and spiraling towers, so much higher than any of the alien architecture that had managed to be built upon London’s soil. They seemed to almost glow in the realm’s diffuse sunlight, diffracting blue and pink hues, rainbows of color sparkling against great mosaics, stained glass windows—or were they made of ice?—seamless walls, delicate crystal bridges as the structure sprawled ever higher and wider before him. 

He wondered, just how huge this was going to be. How many buildings were there? How many students? 

It almost seemed as though the academy itself was as wide as London itself, and as ridiculous as the thought felt, he could not stop wondering at the truth of it. 

Coming closer showed him what almost seemed like immense greenhouses, tall structures made entirely of ice that seemed crowded with verdant vegetation, each carrying what felt like a different vibe to them. The anxiety coiled tight in his chest came loose at the sight, something like relief making him relax as he stepped into the reception hall. 

The kind jotun who had driven him here, set his white warg loose, the humongous pup coming to circle him, pushing Tony against the pillar as the beast finally gave in to its curiosity about the foreign creature that was a warm-blooded human amongst an ice world. 

Tony good naturedly let himself be sniffed and shuffled into, welcoming the cold snout against his chest and face, the hot huff of canine breath heating his face in a truly welcome manner. Though, dog breath was never all that pleasant, he could not begrudge the beast’s gentle curiosity or puppyish enthusiasm. 

He slowly approached a thickly covered hand to be sniffed at, hoping to pet the wolf-like creature, charmed but nonetheless careful about the manner in which he interacted with animals not his own. 

The beast huffed at his proffered limb, lowering its great head enough for Tony to be able to reach up and scratch being a great fluffy white ear. He smiled, letting his eyes close and basking in the warg’s puppyish delight and careless happiness. 

Tony had always loved animals, he’d always had a  _ way _ with them. Pepper had said it was his earliest manifestation of empathy. Tony rather thought otherwise. Even without abilities, one simply had to pay attention and be respectful in order for one to be able to interact with animals in a positive manner. They were always expressive, and most often terribly honest. Moreover, their motives were always clear and simple. 

It certainly was no wonder that he’d preferred their company to that of humans. Or that he preferred losing himself amongst their thoughts. 

They were incredibly refreshing. 

Anthony was the Stark Lord. As such he was mandated to appear at the House of Lords, had to make appearances at court, had to keep up with the latest manigances and power plays of his fellow lords, the scheming and plotting, the underhanded power plays, the carefully hidden insults. 

Of course, he’d spent the past few years as much a recluse as one could possibly be, only ever attending the most mandatory of functions, otherwise claiming illness or prior engagements, losing himself to his inventing, finding a mistress in his Lady Science. 

But then, had it not always been thus for Anthony? Running away from the long and wearisome dinners with Clinton, running through London’s streets or through the ‘wild’ countryside, ducking away from their minders. 

He’d never gotten around to finding himself a pet, however. He knew he could have. He had certainly wanted to, yearned for the easy companionship of a canine, or maybe even a feline friend, but Howard had never agreed and Maria had a dreadful reaction to the beast’s presence, and thus it was a closed matter that no animal should ever darken the Stark’s household. 

He sometimes wondered if it would have changed anything. There was no use crying over spilled milk, however, and he found himself content to simply let the great beast distract him for a moment, with it’s carefree and gentle nature, it’s excited playfulness. 

Tony smiled, something tender blossoming in his chest. 

Howard had always told him that he felt too much, but Jarvis had always been quick to come afterwards and tell him to embrace those emotions, learn them, live them fully before letting them fade away like smoke, instead of repressing them and letting them crystalize inside his heart until it turned to stone. 

It was a rather strange imagery, but with his empathy, Tony could only understand and be thankful. Feelings festered or somehow dulled were always sad and sickening to behold. A true empath would naturally orbit someone who let themselves feel, who let their emotions burn brightly then dissipate as they were wont to do, ephemeral as butterflies, as bright as fireworks, as changing as water. 

What else could he do from then on, but to let himself feel that deeply? 

The old jotun chuckled, his giant frame towering over the young Midgardian he’d guided there. 

His red eyes were shrewd but kind, his mental presence mostly masked by the ice surrounding him. Tony smiled back at him, polite and relieved by the quietness. 

“Neëjäh likes you, young mortal. Neëjäh does not like many people. You must be good soul.” 

The man’s english was broken and heavily accented, but Tony greatly appreciated the jotun’s efforts nonetheless. All-Speak, as was spoken by most of the realm’s population, was most bothersome for one gifted in the mind arts, especially so when they were untrained as he was. When others spoke to him, Tony only heard many overlaid voices speaking an infinity of different languages at once, and a feeling not unlike a pickaxe being driven through his skull as the spell attempted to reach his cognitive cortex without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’. 

As such, the old wizened jotun was the only one Tony had been able to successfully communicate with so far. 

He was indeed getting much better at  _ listening _ to AllSpeak without feeling his head splitting open, though he still had some trouble actually understanding it. He hoped he would manage to do so before it was time to actually attend classes. He’d been asked if he wanted to receive the spell before admittance into class. Doing without would be bothersome but doable, he’d been told, since every instructor had AllSpeak. Tony had figured he wait to see how things evolved on his end before committing to anything. 

When it came to it, he’d read that someone with his skillset he might be able to emulate the effects of AllSpeak without actually using the spell, though it required concentration and mastery in order to be able to do such a thing properly. 

He knew the people who had reviewed his application had no real idea of his true abilities. He’d never had them properly tested, in fact. Not even himself knew for sure what was the extent of what he could do, and if his powers kept shifting and growing as he suspected, then it might be a good idea to perhaps attempt to figure out a pattern. 

That was one more thing on his list of things to do. 

He had no idea where to start. 

Never before had he felt intimidated by a place or an institution, except perhaps when he’d been a young child and his father had attempted to send him to Eton. He had gone of course, for a few years. He had made sure to coast over the curriculum and become the best at it, and to get out of there as quickly as possible. 

But it had nothing on this place. 

This place was made for giants. Even now, as an adult standing before those gates, he was more intimidated than he’d been as a ten year old before the most prestigious boarding school of the kingdom. 

The old jotun smiled. 

“I-Käajörn might be able to guide such a good soul through those many walls. If young Midgardian wishes.”

And Anthony smiled back at the old wizened face, marvelling at the humanity in those red eyes, in that blue skin. Warmed by the kindness of strangers towards people so different from themselves and yet the same. 

“I would be honored, Käajörn.”

From then on, with his giant guide walking him through the checkpoints, helping him with the administrative paperwork and his accommodations, translating with some key personnel and having stern words in a foreign tongue with some more recalcitrant officials, a crackling and ringing language that fascinated Anthony to no end, the whole matter was solved quite easily. 

Before he knew it, Anthony was settled in a temporary room while awaiting a full examination of the spectrum of his abilities in order for him to be house along with the class of appropriate power level. 

He had received a full map of the place and an appointment for the next day, along with a scrying crystal tat apparently held the list of school rules and regulations, the ranking and learning systems, an explanation of how the level of each student was checked and accounted for, different iterations of point systems and even an option to do without any formal examination or ranking, to only have the assessment of teachers define whether the required skill were learned. 

In fact the entire thing seemed like an overly complex imbroglio, but Tony rather thought that it made sense since so many beings from so many different cultures came to this place in order to learn. They had different expectations, perhaps even different manners to deal with competitiveness or pressure. It seemed wise to insure that all could be comfortable, even if it made the administrative process more complex. 

Anthony wondered at the mind behind that decision, someone who attempted to put the well-being of students and their learning experience first instead of the comfort and laziness of the management. 

The work of a Prince… What kind of man would such a person be? One born to power and yet attempting nonetheless to establish a way for people of all backgrounds to obtain education, to empower themselves to the best of their abilities. 

Tony quite well knew what the first purpose of schools had been on Midgard. His experience at Eton was quite eloquent about that. Learn how to follow the rules, to constrain oneself to a manner of being, of acting that is entirely alien to one’s nature. Learn to be quiet and sit patiently, learn to do as you’re told and respect authority. Learn to obey and to fear. 

This seemed to be the entire opposite. This place seemed to make learning  _ fun,  _ something one attempted as a way to better themselves and enjoy themselves. 

It was wondrous. 

Slowly, without him even taking notice, flickers of hope had started to bloom in his soul. 

Perhaps, this would not be a complete disaster. Perhaps he would be able to find peace here, to gain control of this curse and turn it into a gift. 

Tony did not dare quash that small light. There was little enough in his life. 

Perhaps hope would make his life easier. 

But then, he knew, the higher one rose, the harder the fall. 


	14. G4- “Run That By Me Again?”

Prince Loki, as Anthony had learned he was called, was both headmaster of the Academy and one of the attending students. 

He’d been quite flustered when he’d learned about the rather unconventional blend of the two antinomic appointments. He’d wondered about conflicts of interests and workloads, about disciplinary measures and socialization, but apparently he had been the only one worrying about such issues. 

As he’d learned from the various faculty members he’d met as he went through the testing and the administrative formalities, the Prince was quite qualified enough to teach quite a few courses himself, though his scholarly nature always made him strive for more learnings, thus his apprenticeship under quite a few masters at the Academy. 

And thus his placement in the student dorms was quite a deliberate choice, as an implicit message that there was never such a thing as true mastery and that the pursuit of knowledge never truly stopped. As such he was a student himself, and apparently enjoyed greatly the prospect of raising all sorts of hell as well. They insisted that it had worked wonders for student morale. 

It seemed also that he had no authority on students besides those following his own courses, in which he’d earned the reputation of an intransigeant perfectionist, which was why almost no one took his own course. 

The knowledge had made Anthony laugh, between one of the interminable examinations he’d taken. The prospect that the class prankster was actually the strictest instructor there was not entirely surprising, though it had made that elusive figure even more intriguing. 

It seemed he could hardly talk to anyone in the faculty without hearing praises and complaints and admiration towards the man, sometimes all three from the same people, about the way his methods and policy choices made the school run smoothly and the students happy, the way he’d managed to seduce notoriously recluse instructors to his employ, the way he’d turned the entire southwestern greenhouse into an opera-house for three consecutive nights, the way he’d lost yet another student to his harsh critiques… 

And so Anthony had mostly stayed quiet and listened, trying to learn this new place, the unspoken rules and social structure, the way to survive in this new environment. 

It was only later that he’d perceived the undercurrent of grief and reverence that permeated their words. The way each word seemed just a bit too solemn, just a little too weighted. As though their Loki was a man already dead, or close enough to it that their voice still hushed in the sort of respect one afforded to the recently departed. 

He’d dismissed the thought at first, but the longer he listened, the more that nigling thought became insistent, the more he started to wonder, truly, what it was they were hiding about the Prince. It was the gossip monger inside of him, he knew he had no stake in that tale. But he was  _ curious.  _

Not curious enough to risk pissing off the people who would be sorting out his registration, and would be filing his marks and helping him through the next few years, however. 

It had taken quite a while before his student status had been established, not the least because his former psi records consisted of quite a few lies and understatements. In fact, one could almost say they were an absolute heap of codswallop and be closer to the truth. As it was, telling the people officiating that he’d faked most of those tests due to fear of governmental backlash got him a fair amount of slack, but the faculty had never been one supposed to  _ perform _ the tests. Especially since most of its students were supposed to come only with high recommendations and aptitude tests. 

However the infrastructure  _ did _ exist, though in its most basic form. Ritual rooms and channeling crystals, scales and many colored baubles that Anthony had no clue as to the use, but were apparently of great interest to the young elf manning the controls. 

The study of magic and its uses was fascinating, but Tony had never looked into the way other Realms measured and qualified it. 

Nor did he focus on the way it manifested on  _ people. _ After all, he wanted to build machines, and raw magic was significantly different from the power coursing through individuals. Especially since no two people had their magic manifesting in the same manner, thus their properties were different as well. It made it a most unreliable power source. 

He had of course learned  _ some _ of it, at least enough to know how to fool the official testers, to falsify his results and pass for someone with a negligible ability, quite within the norm of these day’s populace. 

However, watching the various beings fluttering around him, tracing sigils and pouring from alambics, he could admit that he was quite intrigued by the process. In fact, if Anthony was honest with himself, everything about magic in its many forms was fascinating, even though his first love would always be his dear Lady Science. But the two were far from incompatible, he knew. 

And watching the bustle as the different experts bickered around his results almost made the battery of rituals and exams he went through worth the experience. 

However, as it was, his head was starting to pound again, his focus on the ice’s voice wavering as the noise from the mages surrounding him buzzed unpleasantly against his temples. 

They felt excited and incredulous, wary and joyful, curious and pitying. 

Tony gritted his teeth, remembering Miss Potts’ advice. He breathed in, counted slowly. 

The feelings started feeling more distant, more distinct from his own. He could know what was his own and what was not, and his own tiredness battling against the general excitement, insisting on his need to retreat, to resource himself and seek the peace of his temporary quarters. 

His rooms were warded heavily, as were every room in the place. It was better than anything he’d ever seen before, more efficient than what he’d managed to create himself. 

Perhaps because his efforts had only been targeted to the physical plane. He didn’t know how wards worked, though he was intrigued by them. 

In fact, he was interested by each and every new use of magic he’d seen performed since he’d left Earth—Midgard. 

He had no idea if he would be able to perform any of those, however. The skills Midgardians had inherited were usually of the Psychic sort, and thus on the more discreet end of the spectrum. However, magical energy was the same, and it ran through every mage’s veins, even if the natural pathways for its use differed for each mage. Perhaps there was a chance. 

He wouldn’t know until the mages around him gave him his results however. 

And, regardless of the results, he already had quite enough on his plate with his own meddlesome abilities. Why add more trouble for himself?

But then, he did feel very much like a young child visiting a toy shop for the very first time, or perhaps one where many colorful candies were displayed. 

It was heady. 

Everything was strange and new and exciting. 

This was definitely a better alternative to the asylum where he would be stuck in a straitjacket and fed psychotropic drugs through a tube. 

Here felt like the land of opportunities, like he finally had the option to take his life in hand. 

The mages were loud, speaking over each other, some of them flailing and waving their parchments or magical artifacts in each other’s face. Anthony hid a smile at how terribly undignified they were turning out to be. 

They seemed to have forgotten him as their argument started, so he was still standing in the ritual circle , holding the crystal ball they’d handed out to him at the beginning. 

He didn’t quite dare interrupt them, or even ask whether he could leave for his room yet. After all, they did not seem to need him anymore? 

However, he would rather not have their ire brought down upon him when his head was already pounding. He felt not quite unlike the mornings after his youthful misadventures with alcohol, and he yearned rather fiercely for his glasses at the very least. They’d been left in the anteroom, however, with the warning that magical artifacts could interfere with the results. 

Anthony had no clue what they had meant by ‘magical’. He had not expected his dark glasses to have the slightest hint of magic in them, he’d made them himself, he rather thought he would have known had he made them a conduit for magic of some sort. 

But then, he knew he had no mastery of his own abilities, where magic was concerned. Who knew what it did without him knowing? 

Certainly, Dum-E and U did seem quite a bit more  _ alive _ than simply cogs and wheels should be. 

So he’d left behind everything that helped him cope with the stimulus he received and he was now at the limit of what he could bear. 

He had tried to breathe as Pepper had taught him. He had tried letting his mind wander away. 

Perhaps he could try folding his mind within that of the ice? 

It was thick and slow in this world,  _ ancient.  _ A gentle titan, one great and yet still treacherous, as ice was wont to be, convoluted, slippery, letting great lakes and quick rivers run under her embrace. 

She was kind, attentive to her inhabitants, connected to them in a manner Anthony had never seen previously. She pulsed with life, answering their queries and wishes, offering to each of those quick lifes a spark of her own magic, running through their veins, beating in their chest like a heart of their own. 

Ica had her favorites, of course. Great architects wielding her powers to create incredible structures rising to the heavens, carefully shaping her form so that the wind rang through her like a song. Gardeners, who took care to preserve her surface, to make her healthy and beautiful, in a way so completely different from earth and yet still  _ bountiful. _ Hunters, who knew her nooks and crannies, who were closer to her than most others, living only at her mercy. 

And there was this child-of-one-heart who lived only from that spark she had offered them all, a child of magic and ice whom she felt particularly close to. 

Of all the lives she could feel scurrying over her…

The link cut suddenly, throwing Tony’s mind into turmoil as the difference between he-human and she-ice snapped back into place, the edges of his mind blurry yet smarting with the lost connection. 

Confusion reigned, as Anthony felt flesh-bound once more, limited by this too small body. His limbs could only be clumsy when he could previously wield even shards of himself as easily as boulders, his senses restricted to only six, his skin too small, too tight, too inflexible. 

He gasped, choking as his need for air reasserted itself. He was on the ground, like a puppet with strings cut. He should have known of course. 

He’d feared such a thing happening since the voices had started. They’d all seemed so real, so loud, and he’d wondered, what if one day I lose my own? 

He knew not what had brought him back this time, what had broken the bond that made him a part of Ice. Everything was still blurry, still  _ jumbled. _

He could start to remember who he was already, could find his names, move his toes. Remember where he was. 

He braced himself for the pain, for the moise he would feel… should be feeling. 

There was nothing. His mind was blissfully silent, entirely his own, and yet it didn’t feel as though his powers had been cut from him, he did not feel the horrible feeling of loss as though he’d been amputated from an essential part of himself. 

Tony blinked, his eyes opening to the dazzling stained glass dome under which his examination had taken place. He had not moved then. And it must not have been too long since he’d lost consciousness. 

The glass sphere was still in his hand, hopefully intact since it had looked rather precious. 

He was not hurt, not even a bump in his head, not even the headache that had plagued him ever since the voices had started to rise. 

This did not make sense. Usually the headaches were persistent, lasting long after he’d gotten safe behind his blinds. They outlasted even those pesky cure-all brews that Jarvis made him. 

Sitting up felt strange. His head felt a bit heavy, as though he was wearing some elaborate headgear, but his mind felt light, so very light. He no longer had that headrush and vertigo that came while he attempted to adjust to gravity once more. Nor did he have the strange overlaying double sight making him vaguely nauseous until he could start to overlook it, focusing only on the part he wanted. 

He felt  _ healthy, _ for the first time since his abilities had started appearing. 

Vaguely he wondered if the feeling would hold against a good glass of bourbon. 

He tried turning his head, looking around to see where the sages had gone but stopped himself when he heard a soft metallic clink, along a low crystalline vibration. 

Lifting his hand over his head he felt the strange contraption that had been put on him somehow. 

His original guess was right, then. He also supposed that device might be linked to his sudden clarity of thought. 

He closed his eyes as a wave of emotion threatened to drown him. 

He hadn’t been able to think that clearly in  _ years,  _ and only now did he see how  _ slow _ he’d become, how much of a struggle even the most basic tasks had become. 

He should have perceived the ploy in the Widow’s Keep instantly. He should have been able to see from the wording of Clinton’s letter that there was a ploy afoot. He should have found out which of his father’s partners had been the forger  _ years ago. _

But now he could see, he could think! 

It felt just as that time he’d spent as a youth in a corset, when he and Clinton had fooled around and Natasha had dared them to. He had suffered in the first hour, and then gotten used to it. But only upon removing it, upon finally being able to  _ breathe _ again, had he understood how terribly restrictive it was, how horribly crippling. 

But for how long, was the question? 

Was it due to the strange hat he’d been made to wear? It felt complex and yet hastily cobbled together from what his engineer’s hands could tell him. This was barely a patchwork solution. He did not know how long it could last, but certainly not enough to be in any way a viable solution. But if it was a prototype, if a more permanent solution could be found, would he not do well to take it? 

He had come to this school in order to find a way to control his abilities. This machine was an easy out from the effort and years it would take to gain such mastery. 

But did he really want that? Did he want so quick patchwork that left him cripple still should anything happen to it? An obvious liability that he would grow to depend upon? 

Or would he not rather take the time to turn it into a strength instead? 

Of course the question did not even deserve to be asked. He was Tony Stark, he’d never been scared of a little hard work. 

Nor was he the type to let himself be dragged down or overcome by anything, even if the previous years might have made him seem otherwise. 

Though it remained to be seen if it was even possible for one to get ahold of such  _ ‘gifts’.  _

But even then, even with that uncertainty, Tony was not likely to choose a crutch over the ability to walk. 

He liked a good gamble anyway. 

A figure started to shimmer into being by his side, one of the old people who’d directed the examination. 

His previous dilemma had probably been a test, then. The timing was too suspicious to be otherwise. 

And, truly, Tony would have never asked himself such questions. It was ridiculous. He was himself. Never would he have even considered seriously the option of keeping a  _ prop _ as a solution if he ever had the opportunity to find a better option. 

Regardless of his previous situation, of course. He knew he should have looked for an escape earlier, for a way to find true mentorship and education, but not only did he have the fear of government retaliation, he also had his previous experience at Eton that had enforced the belief that he was better off learning on his own, and that education facilities were more of an obedience factory than a learning establishment. 

There was not much he could do either way, but he rather disliked having his mind manipulated in such a way. He supposed they must have meddled anyway when they had installed the apparatus adorning his head, but then he rather supposed they had done him a favor at that time. 

He did understand the point of their little trial, however. It would not do for their new students to be unmotivated, to prefer the first quick fix to the work that needed to be put in for any true lasting skills. 

He  _ was _ grateful for the sudden clarity of thought, so he supposed it could be considered a fair enough deal. He did think it rude, but then, he’d signed the form, and he was fairly an agreement to allow for certain minor mental manipulations were upon it, ‘if the situation called for it’. There had been a listed criteria of what they could and could not be, and ‘suggestions’ had been on it, along with minor telepathy. Tony was glad to have read the inter-realm legislations on the subject, because they were an absolute mess of addendums and subclauses and pointed wording for essentially intangible things. 

As a result they were mostly an incomprehensible mess, but the gist of it had the fact that minor mental manipulation could be allowed legally under a written consent agreement form. It was a very grey area, since most people could not even understand what it was they were writing laws about, but the main distinction between a minor and major manipulation drew the line at the free will of the recipient. 

However, as there were no true ways of proving the extent of someone’s actions in the realms of the mind, there was not much that could be done. It was incredibly easy for even the slightest petty criminal to start a sob story about how a mean telepath had made them do something. 

But the skill to actually influence the minds to such an extent was extremely rare and those who did very often took on a magical vow in order to be beyond doubt. They most often either used their abilities as manners of public service, as healers or as peacekeepers of sorts. Some were recruited in the bowels of government agencies, using their skills in nefarious ways. 

Tony knew that was part of his abilities. He wanted nothing to do with it, but he still  _ could,  _ if he wished, turn the people around him to mere puppets, or plant ideas within their minds or change  _ who they were. _

He didn’t know  _ how, _ had never even tried, but he somehow  _ knew. _

And now, looking at the wizened face staring back at him with too deep eyes, their skin colored in a strange silvery sheen and hair dark as night, he knew he was faced with another with that very same skill. 

He shivered, fear and anticipation and  _ recognition _ twisting in his gut. For the first time he felt that there was someone he could relate to, someone who could understand him and his struggles. 

Hope was a funny thing. 

But the old being facing him stayed silent, looking at him contemplatively. 

Anthony had never done well with silence. His mind always ran through the worst possible scenarios, if there was nothing to grasp onto. What-ifs could drive him literally crazy, even more so since his imagination had taken a mind of its own. However, usually he could hear the low murmur of their minds as a background noise, even though he took good care not to listen in. 

Eavesdropping was rude after all. 

But then the alien was truly silent, their mind so quiet that Tony would not even know they were there unless he was seeing them with his own eyes. 

He did not know whether to be reassured or wary. 

And when they spoke. Their voice was slow, melodious and unfailingly polite as they asked him about his current physical and mental state, how the device was interacting with his abilities, if he was still in discomfort. 

And so clearly and calmly, Tony answered their queries to the best of his abilities, being as polite as he could be. 

They were leading up to something, he knew. Something he might not entirely appreciate. He had noticed that they were the only two people left in the room, the laboratory cleared out of most magical artefacts and left mostly bare with the Wise having left them to their talk.

And slowly, the questions turned to Anthony’s previous symptoms, his physical reactions to the powers he held, his previous occurrences of being  _ ’lost’. _

He didn’t like where the old mage was going with that. A lifetime of hiding his abilities, his skills, his oddness had left its mark. People questioning those things tended to react poorly to the truth anyways. 

Except for those four people who’d held his trust, half of them against his better judgement. 

And he’d come here to learn, to be helped. What, then, was the point, if he was going to hide those very things he was seeking counsel on? 

And so he answered truthfully, moreso than he had when anyone else had asked, because he knew better than to worry Jarvis unnecessarily with random nosebleeds and constant headaches. He had a feeling that his faithful butler knew anyway, but then what secrets could he truly hope to keep from him?

And always, the crone stayed patient, listening without interrupting, carefully watching him as he spoke. 

Tony felt strangely soothed by the presence. He did not know if it was a passive form of empathy or if the being was just naturally emitting a reassuring aura, though sometimes the line between the two was extremely blurry. He did not really care either way. 

Socialization had never truly been his strongest suit, for many reasons. But then sometimes it was necessary. As a gentleman of the Empire, it was just short of required by law. 

Luckily, they got to the point rather quickly once Tony was done answering, their verdict clear and concise, and yet they made absolutely no sense in the slightest. 

“Excuse me, would you run that by me again?”

Quite certainly, Tony had expected to have quite a bit of magic in his blood. 

It was certainly troublesome enough to notice. 

Perhaps quite a bit more than the  _ human _ norm. But then, humans were hardly the most magical of beings, in fact, beyond the aesir who’s entire Yggdrasil-given ability was channeled to their physical strength, humans were the least magical creatures in the nine. 

It would only be natural for their benchmark to be lower than the average elf. 

What was truly surprising was that apparently his ability was not  _ only _ atypical by humans standards. It was in fact queer by  _ every _ standard. And by quite the margin, at that.

Of course, the young Lord Stark would make the best of it, as he always did. He would simply view it as yet another form of privilege that would bring its own sorts of constraints and its own brand of power. 

Only. As soon as he got himself over the shock of it. 

He  _ really  _ needed a drink. 


	15. B2- Writing Style: Limerick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to Lou who really was godsend for this chapter, without whom I would have never managed to straighten out those pesky Limericks XD

In the Academy, dorms were decided through level of ability and magical power. It was in a way rather hierarchical, but there was a rather practical reason behind the arrangement. 

That reason would be wards. 

Each dorm was warded in accordance to the power of its inhabitants, in order to avoid power leakage and other forms of turbulences. Turbulences such as the melting of half of the north was or the animation of the roof. 

Such manner of ridiculous things that the old sage had assured Tony indeed had happened before they’d instaured strict warding policy in the dorms. The warding covered each room and insulated them completely from the remainder of the building, and thus the rest of the world. 

It meant that Tony should be able to rest himself in there with no ill effects from his abilities. 

Tony believed them. They had already offered him an unexpected respite with his new and cumbersome headgear, and even the warding from the guest quarters had seemed like a balm upon his raw psyche. The prospect of having such quiet every night seemed more than heavenly. 

At least until he remembered that he would be sharing a dorm with the Prince. 

Tony had not had much personal experience of royalty, though he had seen a few from afar in various upper-class parties. 

He rather disliked them. Not that he would ever dare say such a thing aloud, but he’d never been fond of the usual game of bootlicking and throwing weight that appeared in such venues. 

There was a reason he’d appeared as a recluse. 

And while the information he’d read about the prince tended to paint him in a different color, he rather preferred to avoid such an important personnage’s notice. 

But it appeared that his fears were unfounded. 

In fact, it was almost as though the Prince was hardly ever in the dorms at all. Tony had been there for more than a month without even seeing a hint of that elusive personage. 

The first time Tony saw the Prince, the young jotun was verbally eviscerating some poor sod. 

In verse. 

It seemed to be in good fun, the young vane giving nearly as good as he got, the two trading insults across the lane, while spectators cheered and exclaimed mock outrage and appreciation at each barb. 

At least until the vane laughed one last time, bowing out while conceding the win to his majesty under the applause of the crowd. 

Another contestant took his place, then another, not all of them such good sport, and none ever leaving a single dent in the Prince’s composure. 

Apparently this was some form of verbal national sport, a bit like cricket, but involving wordplay instead of balls. Or perhaps a trial for the  _ other _ kind of balls. All in all, in Tony’s opinion, infinitely more interesting. 

He was fascinated.

The Prince never lost his poise. Even while reducing his opponents to tears, even when being insulted in ways that seemed simply outrageous to the young Lord’s british sensibilities, and yet so very refreshing in their honesty, he kept a predatory elegance to his bearing and a cunning smirk gracing his lips. 

_ Prince Loki _ was fascinating. 

And the ‘flyting’ itself was just as captivating. The way words were used as spears, and yet in a manner that was brilliantly artistic, the way they simply unravelled the other person, unleashing their core unless they were truly able to prove the coolness of their heads and their grace under pressure. 

It did look a lot like the courtly games of power, and yet it felt fundamentally different. 

For one, none of these spikes were carefully concealed under a sugary coating of poison. 

For another, the objective was not truly the humiliation of the loser, nor was it the assertion of one’s superiority. Not truly. Not even with the Prince so beautifully taking down one opponent after the other, tearing their words down and weaving insults with the same relish one savoured ambrosia. 

Tony could not rip his gaze away from his dancing figure, could not stop drinking in the deliciously vicious words pouring from those blue lips, could not help but be fascinated by such cleverness. 

That man was dangerous. The headset he wore protected his mind from the cacophony of the crowd but it left him absurdly vulnerable to the melodious voice, to the entrancing rhythm of the rhymes, the deathly precision of the words. 

To the sheer creativity of some of those outrageous claims. 

Maybe he was falling just a little bit in love. 

And the way he laughed off the insults thrown his way, some outrageous, some pretty harsh, the way he seemed to be almost drunk on the high of the game, words twisting and parrying and feinting until he’d left his opponent wordless, it made Tony all the more smitten. 

Perhaps, if royals of the Empire partook in such plays, he would disdain them less. 

Then again, the idea of calling Prince Albert a horse-faced simpleton, or calling him out as being cousin with his own sister… while the thought was pleasant, it gave Lord Stark the shivers. 

Lese-Majesty was no small crime. 

And yet, here were people laughing about their Crown Prince being told that he  _ laid with a horse,  _ of all things, and Prince Loki himself looked the most entertained that he had thus far. 

Only to call the opposing party a jealous shrew who wanted to taste horsecock for himself but was too cowardly to try. 

Tony had to bite his gloved hand, lest he crumpled from laughter. 

Perhaps this enjoyment was not so much about bringing the royals down from their pedestal but about Prince Loki himself, and the whimsy and ridiculousness of his humor, along with his unshakable aplomb. 

But, when the Muspel he’d been flyting with left with a bow and large peals of laughter, the mood shifted. 

“Tis easy for such a Prince

To find willing ears for his quince

He finds it so breazy

To make jests sound sleazy

But only when there’s truth to mince”

Laughters died down and suspicious murmurs started, a general sense of unease falling over the crowd. 

Tony could feel it even while wearing his inhibitor. 

Turning his head to look at the source of disquiet, he found a slip of a woman, jet black air and chin lifted arrogantly. 

She looked human. No pointed ears, no strangely colored skin, no mystical air of wisdom shivering around her, she appeared mostly  _ normal. _

An aesir, then. 

And after the bloody war between the two warring people and the ruthless execution of the Asgardian king, most Aesir remained isolated in their homeworld, hardly leaving except to pick fights with the other realms. 

They were reputed to be truly mean spirited brutes unable to see their own faults. 

But this one seemed eloquent enough. 

If a bit rude maybe? But then, the flyting competition was quite relaxed about protocol, and simply throwing a verbal gauntlet did seem a proper way of starting a bout.

And regardless of the history between their people, the Prince faced her with grace. Stepping back from the people he’d been conversing with, he tilted his head to the side in a half bow, acknowledging her politely. 

There was a dark glint in his eyes as he straightened, his spine looking almost rigid as he stood tall, towering over the girl’s short but hostile stance. 

Most of the playfulness had left his gaze, but there was something mockingly bitter there instead, something darkly amused that gave Tony some strange shivers. 

_ That _ prince was not one he would want to provoke. 

But the rules of the game had already been set, a battle of words and wits, with no retaliation that could be taken against any party for what manner of insults they threw. 

That manner of regulated no-holds-barred hurling of verbal abuse  _ in verse _ was still both alien and utterly captivating to Tony. In particular, the very idea that no retaliation could be meted out, no matter what was said, no matter what laws of honor were trampled in the way, it was simply mind-boggling. 

And yet, this time, contrary to the previous, Tony could not help but feel a shiver of apprehension run down his spine. The entire courtyard was held in a tense silence, waiting with bated breath the battle that would come. 

The girl held herself tense, her chin lifted in disdain as her belligerent smirk dared Loki to reject her. 

She already knew he would not. Could not really, not without losing face, not without a good reason. 

If she was truly Aesir, the political ramifications of that slight would be long reaching. 

And even then, allowing some people in an insult battle and not others would probably amount to admitting to a skewed competition, perhaps even to a cheat. 

The exact same thing she had just accused him off in her verse. 

However, Loki appeared unworried, if rather irked. In fact he seemed quite a lot like a sleeping beast just woken from its slumber, a bloodthirsty creature who would relish in destroying the fool who dared to wake him. 

But Tony was an empath, and one who had more than enough experience to perceive someone’s state through body language, even with his abilities currently muted. 

And Loki was not nearly as comfortable as he’d like to show. 

Oh he was not  _ scared  _ or anything of the sort. But he would have very much preferred for that girl to have never shown her face. 

She was planning something. The Prince knew that, and yet could do nothing but walk right into her trap. 

And so he did. With dignity and aplomb, with a smirk on his face and mockery in his eyes. 

“Lady spinster too far from home,

Never belongs as she can roam,

But what prospects for a spinster, 

When she is but a drinker?

With no more home she’s all alone.”

The girl went rigid, but her stance did not waver. Her eyes hardened, glinting like flint as she gritted her teeth before smiling meanly. 

“Such praise for a dead man walkin’

Whose heart even colder than his skin;

A prince, but in name only, 

One could hardly be more surly!

None can love him, not even his kin!”

Tony frowned. 

A dead man walking? 

And yet all around him, people had stilled, holding their breath with barely restrained rage. The silence felt heavy, oppressive. 

The people around him were  _ boiling,  _

They obviously knew what it was about, and yet were held silent by the rules of the game. Were barred from actually  _ retaliating _ against her words. 

But he was quite certain nonetheless that they would not be left unpunished,  _ someway. _

Prince Loki was quite beloved. 

And then Tony remembered the too long silences, the permeating sadness that underlined people’s words whenever they spoke of Loki, the way they seemed weighted, almost like one would talk of a sickly child, or a dear friend who had taken to coughing blood. 

As though they were grieving for a person who yet lived. 

Tony shivered, a strange spark of outrage igniting at the thought. 

How peculiar, how much that Prince seemed to make people love him. 

“Do my words make him frown? 

Is he the prince, or the clown?

This title is such a farce,

A handout to a ‘poor’ arse.

Who would give the dead a crown?”

Apart from her, apparently. She did seem to hold quite the personal grudge against him. 

Tony doubted it was just from the whole war between Asgard and Jotunheim . That was quite a while ago already, though Tony rather supposed that resentment could fester for quite a bit in some cases. 

Especially if the land that had been subjugated and had yet to recover either their former glory, or even their autonomy. 

But then, there was no actual spark of recognition from the prince himself. At least nothing actually  _ personal. _

Or was there? 

“Fickle lady not happy with her lot

Status, prospects, she cared naught!

Better than her peers

Or rich with her tears?

No more dresses, the sword she sought!”

That was actually pretty tame compared to the rest of the game, as though Loki was being careful not to step on her toes. Did he not know more than the obvious about her? They clearly ran in different circles. 

Still, something niggled at Tony, because the prince was being  _ too _ careful with his words. 

The same way Tony was careful when he handled white hot metal from his forge. 

And while every person in the yard was bristling at the insults, at the way the Aesir had clearly put both her feet straight in the middle of what was clearly a taboo subject of both Jotunheim’s politics and Prince Loki’s personal life, Loki still circled her carefully, weighing his words, holding back. 

Had Tony been confronted with that manner of restraint, he would have turned tail and ran. He did not know  _ what _ the prince had on the girl, but if it was too vicious to unleash out of hand, she would have done well to thread with more care. 

But then, she did not seem to have a single whit of common sense. Even  _ initiating  _ such a challenge when one had such a history that could tear one’s reputation to shred was foolhardy at best. Doing so against someone who was undefeated and well liked was ridiculous. 

Not noticing the signs, the approaching danger, was  _ preposterous. _

And yet, here she was with a cocksure smile, chin lifted in an insolent tilt as a sneer marred her face. 

The prince wore insolence much better than she did. 

She swaggered as a peacock, bolstered by the lackluster repartee, smug in her cruelty. But she did not  _ look.  _

Tony did not know if he should feel sympathy for one so foolish. He usually had no patience for stupidity. 

But then, when he saw the way her next verse affected the prince, how he almost flinched, spine going rigid and eyes narrowing, he rather thought that she deserved whatever she got. 

“But whose son are you in the end? 

Which father made you truly bend?

Poor babe cursed by his foe!

Weeping with your great woe!

You don’t fit, you only ever  _ pretend.” _

The words made no sense to Tony, and in fact there were quite a few confused murmurs around. 

But those who knew looked murderous. 

They looked as though the girl had spoken the greatest blasphemy one could and was gloating about it in the most obnoxious way. 

Tony rather thought this was quite the accurate description of what was happening. 

And, clearly sensing blood, the wench pressed on her advantage, a nasty smirk pulling at her lips as her voice crooned like poison. There was triumph in her stance, and a vicious sort of cruelty that felt like pettiness. 

"Becoming his likeness must grate! 

A pitiful wretch running from fate, 

Not a curse but a blessing!

An Odinson in the making! 

No matter how you wail, it’s too late.”

Tony might not understand all that was about, but he had heard enough rumors to get the gist of the insult. And this rather seemed like information an Aesir of all people should not have. 

He didn’t know if there could be such a thing as a low blow in terms of flyting, but he knew she’d certainly crossed a line. In fact, she’d crossed about ten of those. 

It felt like rumorwongering, and yet, there was a seed of truth in there, enough for Loki to feel as though the attack was wounding him truly instead of being merely annoyingly unimaginative. 

There had been enough rumors about the curse, about the Prince’s predicted death for it to be quite common knowledge. 

Enough genuine praise heaped upon him for the sneers about his title being given out of pity to be ridiculous, though Tony found it unlikely that there would not be a few contingency plans in place already. 

But this part, about the curse changing him, about  _ not fitting,  _ about a father… 

Wasn’t the man who cursed the prince called the Allfather by his people? Wasn’t his name  _ Odin? _

Was that girl truly suggesting that, what, because the curse was affecting the prince in more ways than just his lifespan,  _ what? _

It was ridiculous, and yet, perhaps for one who had lived all his life under that kind of influence, of _ oppression, _ perhaps it was a worry one got. 

After all, Jarvis had been his father more than Howard had, simply because his influence was more widespread, more present. 

But then it was also because Tony had recognized it as such, and treasured it, yearned for it. He highly doubted it was the case in this situation, but then, would the prince be able to be quite that certain? 

But then, this was merely speculation. 

And yet, with the way the prince swiftly melted, stance loose and predatory, eyes narrowed and cruel, smile full of too many teeth, Tony could see the words had struck too deep a chord. At first sight, the jotun might appear charming,  _ alluring, _ if not for the chilling aura that saturated the air, choking them with its murderous intent. 

Tony once again found himself incredibly glad for the protection of his helm. He did not dare think of how low his empathy would have brought him had he taken the brunt of this. 

Even now, he found himself shivering, not quite scared and yet wishing to never have to be the target of this man’s ire. 

There was no more restrain, no more carefulness. 

But Tony could not bring himself to feel bad for the girl. She had brought this upon herself, poking a beast more dangerous than she could ever imagine. 

Even then, trembling as he was from the force of the alien’s wrath, being witness to a more  _ savage _ aspect of the Jotun Prince, Tony was still entirely  _ fascinated. _

By his wit, his way with words, his aplomb. 

By the man’s grace, the danger, the assurance. 

And strangely enough, even now with that cold rage simmering under his skin, just out of reach of Tony’s perception, Prince Loki  _ still  _ did not feel nearly as viciously malicious as the girl had. 

“Little lady with eyes too blunt,

How many men have taken your cunt?

A betrothal’s been shattered,

And honor’s been tattered, 

There’s no recovery after that stunt!”

Loki’s smile was a wild thing, mockingly lecherous, scorn dripping from his lips like the softest poison. 

Those verses were indeed more vicious and crude than most of what he’d spoken previously, at anyone beforehand. And indeed, no Lady who flyted with him before had their virtue ever called to question, except for an elf Lady, for whom the customs were quite different, in such that promiscuity was not actually something to be ashamed of. 

Women’s reputation, Tony had found, were fragile and precious things. Sometimes they meant the difference between life and death in such societies where patriarchy demanded they be helpless trophies entirely dependent on their husbands. 

Midgard was clearly the worst in that respect, but it would appear that Asgard was not overly far behind in their systematic misogyny. 

_ This _ was definitely a barb made to wound deep, and even crush, something to entirely annihilate the opposition, to deliver the kind of death blow that ensured they would never be able to strike again. 

“The lady threw her life away, 

Honor on the line, time to stray

Quite flighty, the little lady, 

She had a man already!

With her lusty body, just wanted to play! ”

The girl was frozen, helpless, eyes wide with horror, face white as sheet, as the Prince systematically destroyed her reputation and unearthed her darkest secrets. 

That was a blow she could hardly recover from, not just a funny misadventure, not even one as outrageous as the horse story. 

Honor was important to these people, and dishonor was a stain that could hardly be washed off. 

It certainly explained why an Aesir had ended up on Jotunheim, there would be few places around her own kind where she would find a sympathetic ear, even less where people would be willing to lend a helping hand or forge a friendship. 

Tony did not know if the exile was self imposed or an official edict, but whatever the case, she’d hoped for a blank state by coming here. 

Of course, the prince had known about it, had been wary of why an Aesir would decide to be housed in a land that most had decreed their bane, why they would choose to study amongst those they called beasts and tyrants. And he’d obviously found out about that story. 

And instead of turning her away, had let her come, kept her secret, let her have a chance of a new start, to forge herself a different path. 

But now that second chance was left in ashes. 

And yet, even with such destructive words, even as he brought ruin upon her, it still felt quite different than the girl’s own attacks. 

Perhaps because The Prince had not set out with the intention to destroy her, even though it was what ended up happening. 

Tony somehow felt strangely grieved, something sad and disappointed wrenching ever so softly at his heart. 

Such a pity that it would end that way. The prince had put hopes in that girl, perhaps not so much the hope of a reconciliation between their realms, but perhaps for her a new form of success. Perhaps her example could help bend a little the rigid structures of Asgardian propriety and leave a bit more freedom for their maidens. Perhaps, perhaps,  _ perhaps.  _

But then, if wishes were fishes, we’d all swim in riches. 

Tony blinked, throwing off the wave of empathy that had connected him so briefly to the jotun prince. 

How peculiar. He rarely glided so smoothly, so  _ naturally _ into another’s impressions. In fact, it usually was a jarring twisting experience where he lost both semblance of self and perception of reality. 

And yet, here it had been just a stray train of thought, linking him to the object of his considerations. 

Were his powers going highwire again? Was it a new skill? Or a result of wearing his helm? 

Or perhaps was it an effect of the classes he’d been taking and of the guided meditations that helped him anchor his mind to his body. 

Progress or trouble, it was always hard to distinguish them. 

Just like madness and genius. Tony was both. 

He was starting to suspect that Loki was so as well. 

Maybe it could explain  _ why  _ he was so very taken by the jotun prince, almost spellbound by his allure, his mind, his bearing. 

He focused again on those dangerously honeyed words, on the sharp edge of that smile, the bitter glint in his eyes, the feral grace in his steps as he circled his prey. 

No. That girl was done for, trembling, teary, disbelieving and yet all too aware of her world crumpling to pieces, hopelessly waiting for the final blow that the prince crooned at her, almost gently. 

“She just wanted to be carefree!

A husband, such a terrible fee

Her ruin she’d embrace,

Family fallen from grace,

She never listened to their plea.”

But then, if one did not want their dirty laundry aired out to the world, one did not partake in flyting. 

And one did not needle the sleeping dragon. 

With a smile full of teeth and a mocking glint that rang false in his eyes, the prince asked her, almost kindly: “Then, Sif Branùldradottir,  _ do you yield?” _

The girl,  _ Sif,  _ broke through the numbness enough to nod, shakily, fear spiking from her petrified shape. She looked ready to bolt yet rooted in place, held captive by the prince’s mesmerizing red eyes and her own broken pride, at the edge of shattering to pieces. 

And then the prince straightened, posture loose and nonchalant as he stepped away carefully. Calling out to the assembled students, he called a stop to the day’s competition, thanking them for coming, before leaving, as relaxed as he’d been before the girl appeared. 

What brilliant acting. 

Tony watched the seemingly casual prince, his carefully calculated swagger, the almost natural way he’d given his farewells, as though he’d planned it all along. But Tony knew better and he would bet that there were quite a few more people who suspected as much. 

No, the girl’s words had struck much deeper than he’d let show, and this was his own strategic retreat. 

And now, people were looking at  _ Sif _ with disgust and rage in their eyes, the hostility barely contained by the rules of flyte. 

There would be ramifications to her involvement there this day. Political upheaval, suspicious looks thrown in Aesir’s ways, probably a significant chill in business relationships. 

All because of a prissy girl with a strange grudge. 

None of her words had been against the rules of the game, though one could indeed wonder how she had come across some of the information. While Tony had not been there long, he had however found people incredibly tight-lipped about the specifics of the prince’s curse, though the tale of the end of the war and the Norn’s visit was something of a popular children’s fairy tale, he found. 

But the true actual details, about the curse and what it entailed were incredibly obscure, and it was unlikely that they would just be handed over to an Aesir, of all people. 

It was all very suspicious. 

Tony had a bad feeling about this, as though trouble was brewing. He had only just arrived here, but he could still recognize the signs. 

People who knew things they shouldn’t. 

Whispers moving through a crowd with the beginnings of a scandal, a hatred rekindled. 

A battle were the winner left as though the price was greater than the gain, and the loser was still able to stand straight, chin raised and self righteous even through her tears. 

Because, even though Prince Loki had the last word in this, even though Sif’s life and reputation were over, Tony still thought she was the one to win the bout. 

He could only hope the fallout would not be too steep.


	16. O1- “Stupid Mortal”

It made no sense. Of course it did not. 

Tony loved it. 

After that very brief glimpse of the prince’s psyche that day during the flyting bout, he had been unable to obtain the slightest hint of him. Not a hint of emotion or thought, no past memories, not future appearances, not even an idea as to his schedule within campus. 

It was maddening. 

It was captivating. 

So Tony was curious, of course he was. 

He was used to being curious, however. He was a very curious man, his attention easily caught by even the slightest of mysteries. 

However, he was a psychic. 

And  _ that _ meant that a single thought was usually enough to give him all the answers he seeked. 

Whether past or future, a query or a stray thought, curiosity never lasted long for Tony. Sometimes he got some bit of theoretical information that he got to play around in his laboratory until he truly did grasp it, understanding the practical applications of his knowledge and gaining physical experience in a manner that was so much deeper than anything his brain could come up with. 

Sometimes people wondered why he ever even bothered getting his hands dirty, working with metals and oil and copper batteries. 

They could not understand how terribly  _ bored _ he’d be otherwise. His mind was always full, always brimming with ideas and concepts, and  _ answers _ that he did not have to work towards. 

Having to actually  _ work _ in order to gain knowledge was a luxury that Tony was relearning with his newfound control, but even then, there were still things he knew without even having to ask. 

But there, with Prince Loki, Tony was curious. 

And he did not have answers. 

It was delightfully frustrating, and Tony did well to try his powers against that mystery at every occasion, but his mind, his powers stayed well and truly ineffective. 

Tony felt like laughing, gleefully relishing in the challenge, in the absolute  _ mystery.  _

He was  _ curious. _

Rarely had he ever had the occasion to have that feeling haunt him so. 

How delightful it was that curiosity was not for once the onset of disappointment, of a chase cut short and a dice always loaded in his favor. 

It wasn’t so much that he felt that he was  _ cheating,  _ but instead that he was  _ cheated. _

He wanted that thrill of discovery, those many trials and errors, that search for clues, to know that his every deduction came from the power of his own observations, of his ability of deduction. 

What use was a clever brain if it could only soak up knowledge and never use it?

But apparently, not only was Loki an incredibly clever and snarky person, he was also, somehow, immune to any manifestation of his ability. 

And so, Tony took to using his other senses to quench his thirst for knowledge. 

He discovered that, just as he’d guessed during the flyte, Prince Loki did indeed know most of the people he came across, down to the smallest details of their indiscretions. 

Had Tony not known any better, he’d have thought the prince had a power not unlike his own to help him out, but no. It was only careful observation and patience, cunning and observation that he’d acquired his knowledge. 

Pepper had been able to do the same thing after all, and he’d always admired her for it. 

It seemed quite the terrifying thing for a royal of any kind to know, but then Tony rather supposed that, with the way his own private life was so exposed, there needed to be a way for him to level the playing field. 

And yes, that was quite another thing that Tony had noticed. 

Many things about Loki seemed common knowledge. Each of his accomplishments, his faults, his pranks, everything seemed to be on display, and yet none of it seemed more than a pretty yet unassuming showcase hiding the cleverest and most eclectic cabinet of curiosities in the whole of London. 

His image was carefully crafted, complying just a bit  _ too _ exactly to the expectations of others, too precisely for as wild a being he presented himself as. 

Oh, Tony did not doubt that the traits that  _ were _ on display were genuine. 

But he did not believe either that this was the entire truth of who Prince Loki  _ was. _

And the more glimpse he got of those hidden depths, the more he hungered for them. 

He felt like a starved man, obsessed by his own inability to figure the man out the same way he’d figured out everyone besides the Lady Widow. And she did not count. 

Of course, he was not too extreme in his actions, he knew better than to even attempt following the prince around, or even to try approaching him outwardly. 

However, where before he’d been careful to go out of his way in order to avoid the prince’s potential routes, these days Tony was not nearly so careful. After all, if they did in fact end up crossing paths, Tony might actually find out some new clue about the prince’s character. 

He did not actually expect for that encounter to be quite so  _ physical.  _

Blinking back his surprise at the sudden shift in perspective, the rush of the impact still throwing his mind off balance. 

Tony had not actually bumped into someone since Jarvis had taken him aside, more than a decade ago, and taught him how to use his precognition as a way to always be at the right place at the right time, and to read the currents of people’s movements in order to avoid them. 

It had saved his life more than once, especially since touch of any kind, even a brief one, even through gloves, tended to amplify psychic connections to an often extreme extent. 

And yet, here he was, sprawled on the floor, all but plastered to the prince’s blue body, staring into flustered red eyes, eyes sweeping over the delicate features of his face, following along the thin raised lines that decorated him. 

So focused he had been about the mystery that was Jotunheim’s crown prince, he had failed to take note of how very beautiful he was. 

It wasn’t something he was used to take note of, though he was often guilty of openly appreciating people’s appearances, the elegance or comeliness of their shapes, of their figure and visage, his sight had long been blurred by the superimposition of auras and other ghostly shapes, if not simply dimmed by his smoked glasses. 

It made aesthetic appreciation of other people rather  _ difficult, _ to say the least. 

And even these days, after coming across the realms to come live here in this ice-realm, he found most people either so covered in many layers of cloth and furs as to be hardly distinguishable or, as were most jotun, embarrassingly scantily clad, barely covering their unmentionables with a single loincloth. 

There was a biological reason for that, and a magical one as well, and Tony took good care to respect their culture and not impose his own conservative views upon a people who had thrived millenia without the Crown’s input. 

However, it still meant that Tony rather tended to avoid looking at the bodies on display and hardly had any way to watch those more heavily covered. 

Prince Loki, however, appeared to be a comfortable medium between the two.

He was usually wearing clothing, if rather light. High leather boots, leather breeches, something that looked like a sleeveless, knee length vest, with a high collar, and beautiful if understated embroidery. 

Wearing this, the prince’s arms were still on display, which Tony had most assuredly taken notice of. Defined muscles, strong but lithe, and decorated with long swirling lines that Tony could only observe the details of now that he was closer. 

Those features might just be Tony’s weakness, something that exposed the other reason for him to be a  _ confirmed bachelor. _ Besides his inability to bear with any manner of touch, that was. 

Except, here he was, with his gloved hands decidedly touching that firm chest, laying on those muscled arms, and his mind was still blissfully his own. 

And while the jotun was decidedly  _ distracting, _ Tony was still more than coherent enough to recognize that fact. 

In fact… 

Swiftly removing a glove with his teeth under the gaze of the decidedly bemused prince, he hesitantly placed a bare finger to the blue flesh of an arm, watching with wonder his skin touch another’s for the first time in what felt like  _ eons. _

His hands were white from the absence of sunlight, covered in swirling inks laid in esoteric patterns that strangely echoed the kin lines of the prince’s cerulean skin. 

The contrast was mesmerizing. 

His fingers were trembling against the cool skin, the sheer audacity of a midgardian daring to lay a hand on the untouchable prince barely registering against the fact, the incredible, impossible fact that he was  _ touching a person _ with hands bare but for his inked arrays. 

He barely even touched  _ objects _ with those. 

Even these days, with his instructors having taught him ways to shore up his mind and control when he received external input. Even now that he knew enough to no longer need to constantly wear nullifying devices. Invariably, inevitably, touch opened uncontrollable floodgates into whatever he came in contact with. 

But not this time. 

Even when he concentrated, let his mind feel through his fingers, the echoing beat of his own blood, the smooth coolness of silky jotnar skin, the raised ridges of kin lines, slightly rough to the touch… 

Nothing. 

Nothing but pure sensation. 

Tony marveled at that, at Loki’s thunderous expression that he could not taste, at the obvious irritation with the crazy mortal that Tony had no way to know about except through the narrowing of those pretty red eyes and the pursing of those blue lips. 

There were dark things in those eyes, raw and untamed, an indescribable expression that Tony did not know how to interpret. 

The answer did not come. 

Tony wondered whether the prince was still angry or hurt about Sif’s indiscretions, whether he worried about people looking at him differently. Whether it had him more on edge than he usually was. 

He wondered but did not  _ know. _

It was  _ remarkable. _

If slightly destabilizing. Tony felt strangely  _ vulnerable  _ in his lack of knowledge, wary of what the other would do, how he should react. 

Uncertain. 

Such a strange and new feeling! 

Tony smiled, giddiness making him feel lightheaded, mirth bubbling through him, even in the face of Prince Loki’s ever deepening frown. 

The jotun might think him mad, but either way, Tony had no way of knowing. Nothing beyond an irritated sounding click of his tongue, or an eloquently exasperated roll of red eyes. 

Tony loved it. 

Prince Loki looked like he would be great fun to tease. 

With a frustrated huff of breath, the prince simply lifted Tony off of him before rolling to his feet and brushing himself off. 

Tony noticed that he had been careful enough not to simply push him off or harm him with his greater strength. 

He’d  _ known _ that the jotun was secretly a softie! 

The prince glanced back once more at Tony’s ridiculous,  _ irrepressible _ smile, before shaking his head, muttering under his breath something decidedly unflattering. 

He then flounced off, gait predatory and purposeful as he fled from the strange midgardian that had unwittingly assaulted him. 

Tony chuckled as he pulled his glove back on. 

“Stupid mortal” indeed. 

He had the feeling they were going the bests of friends. 


	17. N5- Hell Is Empty, All The Devils Are There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for bullying, vindictive and Dark Tony, mental manipulation.  
> Just saying, be careful, guys

Of course, things could not possibly be so easy. 

Tony had not truly expected them to. 

And thankfully, that strange blindspot in his visions only included the prince himself, and none of his pose. 

As it happened, interest in the prince was not something widely approved of by Loki’s closest confidants, though it remained to be seen whether they were truly close to him, or only passing acquaintances with the self appointed title of ‘Loki’s Defenders’. 

Regardless of the truth of the matter, they had found a convenient target with Tony’s person, finding ways to make their displeasure known with varied levels of subtlety.

They were small things at first, easily explained away, especially with Tony’s newfound ability to shield. Their intentions did not make themselves known until the incidents started piling up. 

His books disappearing, his notes scattered in the wind or tarnished with mud, his bookbag catching fire. Clutery stinging him with static. His boots freezing to the ground, making him a sitting duck. 

And then, there were rumors. 

None of this was outwardly violent, nor reportable. This was a magic school, after all. Mishaps were only to be expected. 

But Tony was no fool. 

People looked down on psychics. They were less flashy, less  _ showy _ than most other types of magic. They seemed almost harmless, a bit ridiculous. 

What use was knowing stuff, after all? What weight could knowing what your opponent ate at breakfast  _ have _ against someone who could bend lightning to their will? 

More fools they.

Tony was used to being underestimated however. Those so-called ‘defenders’ never really considered the fact that he’d been put in the High Dorms for a  _ reason.  _ They never took into consideration what  _ exactly _ a psychic could do. 

It made his next move all the more easy. 

Because while Tony did appreciate being underestimated… he would never accept being  _ bullied.  _

_ Hell is empty, All the Devils are there… _

_ And of them all, I am surely the worst. _

A slow smile spread over Anthony’s face, full of teeth and dark relish. 

Books burnt, works stolen, tools sabotaged, food tampered with and shoulders bumped into… 

What a delightful opportunity this was. 

Petty mages refusing to share their beloved trickster prince? Arrogant powerhouses who thought it funny to trample those they thought weaker than they? Masses of clueless minions following along like common  _ sheep?  _

Anthony did not care. 

The non-bullying policy was strict in the Academy, but it could not take effect against such small instances, no matter how numerous. It was a guerilla tactic, a way to wear out his nerves and force him to bend. He would not. 

He was stubborn, resilient, and  _ prideful.  _

He would not suffer to be anyone’s willing target. He would not let anyone tyrannize him. 

They were no threat to him, after all. 

Sadly, while the Peace Policy would not help him shake off those pesky annoyances, it also meant he could not use any kind of Dominance skill against his peers. No  _ suggestion  _ to leave him alone, no  _ command _ to call the dogs off. 

Pity. 

It would have rather turned the tides in his favor easily. 

As it was, Tony had taken to using his clairvoyance in order to avoid the worst of the fallouts, honing his passive mind reading abilities to figure out and bypass most of their ploys. 

Still, it was but a stopgap measure, and it would only be so long until cutting glares and ominous warnings stopped working. People would only be willing to call his bluff for so long before they got  _ daring.  _

And Tony would have to be prepared for when they actually  _ struck. _

High class mages were not to be trifled with, as a rule, and those showy tricks of theirs were actually fairly dangerous, especially when multiple mages went on to target the same person. 

But Tony was a genius. He would get through it, just as he’d found a way to be left alone at Eton, just as he’d navigated High Society without people taking more than a passing notice of him. 

He would get through this, find a way to shut this trend before it became ingrained. 

And, contrary to what had happened in the Empire, here Tony did not have to hide. He was not hiding his true potential anymore, and his powers would not be looked at with suspicion here. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

In the end, it was a small thing that made him strike, long before the breaking point had been reached. Perhaps he was impatient, perhaps it was simply the mounting frustration of being treated like a pushover. 

Perhaps he had been inspired by the masterful way Loki had cut down the Aesir girl who had tried to put him down beforehand. 

Regardless, as he found himself covered in cold sludge, his books curling with the humidity, shivering from the drops of liquid ice sliding down his back, he figured he could not let this escalate any further. 

According to Academy Laws, he has the right to use both his powers and wits in order to strike back at anyone within the same power bracket, so long as he refrained from using any form of mental control and subjugation.

It still left him with quite the broad palette of skills to use, and every single ringleader as a potential target. And with his abilities and control swiftly improving, there would hardly be any resistance against his retaliation. 

Mages so young rarely worried about protecting their minds. They were often too arrogant, too self assured. 

Mastery of the Mind and Self came later in their training, when their abilities were well in control already. 

For Tony it was a boon. Breaking into an experienced mage’s head was possible, but difficult, and doing so without them being aware was a gamble best not taken. 

No. 

Here he was in the perfect position to retaliate against his oppressors. 

He could now dip into any mind without losing himself, could look into their past and future with targeted precision when looking for precise information. Could, with a simple brush of his fingers against their foci know everything there was to know about their abilities, or weaknesses or struggles. Know their deepest desires, most precious memories from which of their possessions was most cherished. 

Know their deepest fears just by looking them in the eye. 

Certainly, this was the most rewarding extra-credit project he’d ever carried out. After all, ‘practical application’ of his abilities was highly encouraged by any teacher worth their salt, and Tony’s teachers were very  _ very _ good.

Soon, they had no more secret from him. 

From their movements, to their goals and weaknesses, Tony poured all of his single-minded focus to analysing his opponents, and planning out his traps. 

It started with little things, almost unnoticeable. Their things not being where they remembered putting them. 

The keyword here being  _ ’remembered’. _

Of course, it was not nearly so easy, to change memories, perceptions, ingrained habits. 

So he started with one single target, a particularly nasty vanir mage with an ability for lightning manipulation. 

The boy was of a nervous sort, and superstitious as well. He’d clawed his way up from the muck he was born into and ressented every second of it, had the unconditional support of his family yet despised them for their background and everything they represented. 

And his mind was terribly  _ weak _ to suggestions. 

_ ‘Did you not use to put your bag further from the shelf? Was it not closed when you put it down? Your books are not stacked the way you put them. Remember, you studied Theory of the Elementals last, didn’t you?’ _

And so was the seed of doubt planted. Paranoia was an easy game to play, the strings of the mind delicate yet powerful to manipulate. 

_ ’Which of them is spying on you? What do they want from you? How long until they turn their back on you? Will they betray your secrets? How would the other students react if they knew?’  _

And so the boy started guarding his things jealously, eyeing his former comrades with suspicion, spouting vitriol and accusations at them. 

_ ‘Aren’t they taking advantage of you? Riding on your coattails? You’re worth so much more, they’re pulling you down, copying from you, using you, don’t you see?’ _

It escalated fast… but not fast enough. 

Then the bad luck started. 

The boy was convinced he had written a paper, and yet it was nowhere to be found. He saw things from the corner of his eyes, omens of death and decay, ghostly voices howling about misfortune. His mind whirled, trying to keep up from enemies from all sides, both those who he should trust and those that did not exist. 

He was slipping up, and madness was a terribly slippery slope. 

“Do you think this is _ funny?” _

A cunning smile grew on Tony’s face as he observed the boy looking at his peers so narrowly, almost unhinged as he looked wildly around after tripping upon an obstacle that was not there. 

_ “The curse will get you too! Just you wait!” _

The boy’s voice had become shrill as he’d turned against his troupe, eyes wide and crazed before rushing out of the room in a panicked rush, static going wild around him and singeing the door on his way out. 

But it was not enough. That was only one of them, from a dozen. 

But it did not matter. It was a weak link and he had already broken. The rest would fall apart soon enough. 

The seeds had been planted after all. 

There was a curse, a terrible one. And it was targeting them all. 

From then on, there would not be much more for Tony to do. Their own minds would do most of the work for him. 

Yes, Hell was empty. 

Because Tony was about to raise all their demons from the grave. 

So then, as any good scientist, Tony experimented. 

How much could he manipulate sensations? Actions and nervous receptors? Fear glands and paranoia? How much input was necessary from him before the mind took the reins and built up upon the nightmare? 

Time feeling just the slightest bit out of sync, light feeling just a hint too low, too green. 

The faintest hints of a strange smell they couldn’t place, yet their memory could only associate it with  _ very bad things  _ being about to happen. 

A gut feeling constantly putting them on edge. 

A  _ threat _ was coming. 

A chewing stick could very well become an invasive glue that made it harder and harder to keep the mouth open, until a horrified flame-breather was convinced his jaws were stuck together by an elastic substance that no one could see. 

Something as benign as an eraser could emanate enough of an horrifying aura to have a pointy nosed brat start crying in the middle of class, an illusion of a mnemonic projection powerful enough to have them hesitant to touch anything else, shying away from every other contact. 

Corridors could suddenly feel ominous, blindness creeping over their vision, strange whispers and voices echoing strangely over the walls, thousands of eyes tracking them all over, ominous sounds layering themselves over the words of people they should be able to find comfort in. 

Something they were  _ convinced  _ should be there, and yet it was missing. They could not remember what it was but it was  _ vital.  _

It was guerilla warfare on a scale none but another psychic could understand. 

And then the rumors started. 

It was not something that seemed noteworthy at first, after all the rumor mills always spun no matter how much or how little was happening around the Academy. 

Lightning Boy’s breakdown had kept them occupied for  _ weeks _ before that new juicy bit of gossip went to feed their hungry,  _ greedy _ nosiness. 

But  _ this.  _

This was new. 

And it was  _ true. _

A scandal involving the Famed Dozen, something that incriminated one of them in a decade old disgrace, something that had been covered up now unearthed. 

There was hardly a skeleton in a closet that Tony could not revive, after all. 

But of course no one  _ knew  _ who had leaked the damning testimony. But they all knew one thing: it could only be one of the twelve. 

From then on, they were all on their own, throwing accusations at each other, watching one another with suspicion, biting and nasty comments that striked only so much deeper because of how  _ well _ they knew each other. 

They were falling apart, isolated, on edge and threatened from all sides. 

Four of them had already fallen. Lightning boy and fire-breath, pointy-nose and closeted skelleton. 

Eight were left. 

But at this point, Tony only had to lay back and watch as they self-destructed, the brain having left first, along with the most level-headed of the lot. 

Heated accusations and hurt feelings festered, resentment brewing where there used to be trust, cunning desire to rise in the ranks bring down the rest making them craft devious plots to cripple each other without Tony needing to whisper the smallest hint in their ear. 

They had entirely forgotten about him, in their own strife. 

It suited him perfectly. 

The second rumor barely surprised him. He had not been the one to leak it, but it seemed only a matter of time before the toxic antagonism of the group drove one of them to betrayal. 

And from there on, escalation was inevitable. 

The grapevine buzzed with the sheer amount of malicious gossip being passed around, the stains tarnishing the elite’s formerly pristine reputations. 

It felt strangely gratifying, the way they went so eagerly for the throat despite having covered each other’s back for so long, and the vultures could only watch more greedily for each of their outbursts, each of their.

One after the other, they fell. New rumors, new scandals, new  _ blemishes _ appearing almost every day until none of them could even show their faces without nasty whispers following them around. 

They became volatile, snarling beasts with their magic uncontrollably striking anyone in their range, paranoia and betrayal twisting their minds into shadows of themselves. 

In the end, they had to be removed from the premises, all of them, detained and suspended until further notice. Most of the scandals uncovered needed to be investigated, some were simply a matter of lost honor and youthful indiscretions, but quite a few were actually of a less benign sort. 

Tony considered his work there done. 

His findings on the working on the human mind when reacting to external suggestion, the records of each instance of influencing the Twelve, and their slow descent into not-quite-insanity, all of it was now completed and thus presented to the panel of teachers overseeing the handling of extra-credit practical applications of one’s abilities. 

He felt proud of himself, accomplished. Confident in his own abilities and control. 

To think, not so long ago, he could hardly leave his room without a headset to shield him from psychic bleed, and yet he was now able to use his own skills to protect himself and interact with the world. 

He was far from being a master at the craft yet, but he was improving by leaps and bounds, and he  _ finally  _ felt like he had a way of controlling this skill. 

He had finally stopped passively  _ enduring _ his own power, he would be damned if he just let himself suffer through anything else that he didn’t need to. He’d pave his own way, he would no longer just  _ grin and bear it. _

He felt infinitely grateful to Lady Natasha for giving him the opportunity to come. That was why he was not about to let some small fry drive him out of the Academy. 

And he would take all that he could from what this school was willing to impart to him. 

If the ability to protect himself was a part of that, then it was only for the better. 

It was time to let himself shine. 

He had a prince to impress, after all.


	18. O-4 Trope 5+1

The Academy was home to almost a thousand beings. On the scale of the Nine, it was ridiculously small, but for the one in charge of it’s maintenance and management, it was still quite a lot. Perhaps too much to accurately keep track of the coming and goings of the youngest members, or the students passing by most quickly. 

Perhaps it was Loki’s mistake. Perhaps, even without having noticed it himself, he had started a form of passive discrimination, taking more note of the most promising pupils and forgetting to take note of the meaker ones. 

Or perhaps he had simply felt bitter at the thought of politics starting to dictate the way he ran his own Academy. 

Still, when he found the student’s application on his desk, stamped with the seal of a Midgardian ruling family, he could do nothing but grit his teeth and accept the boy, regardless of his abysmal psi results and utter lack of magical potential. 

A rich boy wanting to come for the thrill of it, maybe? Or a way to remove a troubled child from sight without shame coming to the family. 

It hardly mattered, the boy would not last long.

And, with the dull thud of his own seal of acceptance, Anthony Stark became a student of Jotunheim. 

That was the first time the Midgardian crossed his mind. 

He had not expected there to be a second. 

And yet, more than a month afterwards, the Midgardian was brought back to his notice by flailing wizards howling about unprecedented ratings and impossible potential and abilities. 

At that point he had all but forgotten about the mortal, and it took him a while to understand who exactly Sseltekh was speaking about. 

The result of those tests had certainly been quite surprising, and there had not been one so gifted in the psychic arts in centuries. To think one of them would be Midgardian was rather ridiculous, but then the mind arts were thereabout the only magic they were talented in, so perhaps it was not quite so surprising. 

At least it explained why one such squishy warmblooded being would want to enroll in the Academy. 

It was not, then, the whims of a rich brat wanting to seek the thrill and prestige of studying in an alien world, but instead the shrewd plans of a young man using all his skills to stay hidden from a government that would use him at their convenience. 

That was, at least, a more respectable endeavor.

Still, the question remained on how he had managed to secure a royal decree to make him enter the school without even getting registered in the first place. 

And yet, while it was curious, maybe even  _ interesting,  _ it would not necessarily have been fascinating, if not for the fact that the amount of power packed in that tiny mortal mind was mildly worrisome. If the reports were accurate, and, for all their faults, he could never call the wizards imprecise or misleading in their reports, the fact that the human was still functional and even coherent was more than impressive. 

Enough for him to personally oversee the crafting of a nullifier to offer him a temporary warding until he built his own shields. He then took three weeks of his time to tailor a curriculum to the needs of that very peculiar student, offering suggestions and directions to the few mind-mages and one oracle he had amongst the faculty. 

Psychic abilities were wildly varied, after all, and it was important to insure that the syllabus adapted to the student. 

After that, there was nothing left for him to do and he let the mortal slip from his mind once more. 

He might still keep an eye on the development of a promising student, and distantly note that he would have to be housed in the same dorm, but there was no reason why such a thing should matter to him. 

He never expected to have to think more on the mortal, even less to collide with him. 

The third time Loki thought about Anthony Stark, he was pinned to the floor, looking up at a mortal having a mental breakdown. 

The ridiculous man had clumsily rammed into him, caused the two of them to fall into a messy tangle of limbs, and then proceeded to behave like a crazy person and  _ molest _ the prince of the realm. 

But then, Loki could make a guess at his behavior. He too had taken a moment too long to get his composure back. 

After all, the body that had laid on him for just that brief moment… it had felt  _ warm.  _

Warm and soft, yet somehow rough with calluses, the point of contact sharp and defined in a way that...

Perhaps it had been a fluke, or even a loophole in the curse, but for the first time in so very long, he’d  _ felt.  _

He’d run away then, half in a daze, shaking off the lingering traces of heat from his bare chest, breathing unsteadily as he forced himself to drive the flickers of hope from his heart. There was no longer any place for  _ that, _ not since it had beaten its last. 

And yet, against all good sense, he found himself keeping an eye out for the mortal. His interest had been  _ piqued,  _ after all. 

He watched, stealthily, as the mortal wove through the crowds, avoiding everyone and any obstacle in his path with preternatural and uncanny timing, watched him avoid physical contact with every other being, religiously wearing gloves even in the most heated of buildings, and he wondered if perhaps he wasn’t the only one who had found a curious exception to their personal curse. 

Ha saw the mortal look for him, took note as he improved his psychic control. 

But he only looked passively, the way one glanced at a play they had already watched too many times. And soon enough, he stopped watching altogether, somehow sickened with himself. 

He’d stopped believing in fairytales and happy endings a long time ago. 

It took the smirking midgardian coming to the panel of his teachers with a complete file on the practical applications of mind-magics, an extra-credit thesis wrought with brilliance and mischief, a deliciously dark edge of vindictiveness that he could recognize so well. 

He could feel some raw feelings brewing in his heart, a heavy sort of rage at the thought of silly children having attempted to harm something that could be  _ his,  _ a wild joy at seeing his own cunning and spite so magnificently mirrored. Once more he found himself forced to respect the small mortal, compelled to  _ look _ at him, at his cocky attitude, his eloquence, his cleverness. 

He had truly come to his own, in his time at the Academy, confidence radiating from him now that he was not fighting his own mind and hiding himself from the entire world. 

And so Loki was forced to admit, if only to himself, Anthony Stark was  _ fascinating.  _ A mortal, who was not only an accomplished mage, a clever inventor, but also  _ a trickster.  _

From then on the young midgardian was never too far from Loki’s mind. 

He kept watch, watching out for any sign of bullying, keeping an eye out for more unpredictable and clever tricks, more of that riveting mind in action, perhaps even more petty revenge taken in such masterfully ingenious manner. 

He saw him glistening with sweat in his forge, beating metal into submission and crafting wonders. He saw him ensnaring the minds of all those who talked to him, wielding his image like a man born for the stage, bearing himself with the power of a ruler, weaving words like the canniest merchant. 

He could not tear his gaze away. 

But the fifth time he was truly surprised by Anthony Stark, it was by his empathy. After seeing him so ruthless in his revenge, seeing him patient and kind, mentoring young empaths and newcomers alike, open minded and gentle. 

Somehow, it left Loki frozen to see his mortal so charming, so genuinely caring, watching him teach, playing with children and counselling them, comforting them. 

He wanted him. He wanted that attention for himself, that kind smile, those warm honeyed eyes, that touch that he remembered so sharply. 

He wanted the mortal’s hands all over him, he wanted to see that deliciously toned body laid out on Loki’s furs, wrecked by passion, littered with his marks. 

He wanted to call the mortal  _ his.  _

And he always got what he wanted, no matter the means. 

Five times, Loki had noticed Anthony Stark, five times he’d stood out to his attention, and unknowingly aroused Loki’s obsession. 

Now, he would ensnare him in turn, and ensure that Anthony Stark came to him willingly. He would cast his net, like the spider coming to invite the fly for dinner, hoping that he would lay himself in his parlor, and entangle himself helplessly the more he attempted to leave. 

Because Loki did not play fair, when it came to the things he truly wanted, and he had seen proof that Anthony would certainly be able to rise to the challenge. 

Perhaps he would even be able to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh again, but it was hardly his priority.

So he laid himself in wait by the mortal’s dorm room, waiting for him to emerge for his morning classes, knowing that the man was never quite coherent in his morning ramblings and likely to agree to just about anything in his absentmindedness, finding himself honor-bound to follow through on said promises afterwards. 

It was quite convenient, after all, that his prey was housed so very close to him. It only made it easier for Loki to intercept him with an offering of the bitter beverage that the mortal so enjoyed, and simply ask him for his permission to court. To be  _ wooed.  _

The victory was only sweeter for the dumbfounded and lightly alarmed look on the mortal’s face once he realized what exactly he’d committed himself to. 

He did so love when his plots went as expected. 


	19. I-3 Trope: Magical healing cock

Romance was a peculiar thing. 

It was a strange feeling that caught up to you when you were unaware and simply took over everything. It seeped inside one’s mind and filled your mind with strange thoughts. 

In the end, Loki was not certain which of them was the most captivated, the most bewitched by the other. 

Loki had never wooed anyone before, never even wanted to. 

He had fooled around, experimented with his own body when it was still sensate, then with others when it no longer was, but never had he truly taken the time to enjoy basking in another’s presence, to enjoy the simple things. 

As it was, Loki sometimes got overwhelmed simply by holding Tony’s hand. 

He would never get over the alien feeling of  _ warmth _ permeating his skin and seeping into his veins. It felt like liquid gold, his blood melting from the ice it had become, back into the ichor it was meant to be. 

Anthony— _ his  _ Anthony—was fascinating. The way he looked at the world around him, his boundless creativity, his unshakeable will,  _ everything _ about him had Loki completely enthralled. 

And, yes, Loki was, for lack of a better word,  _ besotted. _

The feeling was new, and fascinating unto itself, as are every new things to those who lived for millenia. 

And while his warm-heart had not started beating again, sometimes he swore he could feel… flutters, as though an ice-moth was nestled inside his breast. It left him feeling strange, unsteady,  _ giddy. _

He rather liked it. 

Being in love was a constant freefall, the hint of vertigo that made one gasp, oh so softly, the sharp focus of a hunter and the careful stillness of the prey, the delicious thrill of the chase that took over one’s soul until they  _ burned. _

His days felt dull without his Anthony by his side, and their evenings together passed in a blur of laughter and secret smiles. 

There was not one word that Loki missed, not one sigh that went unnoticed. 

And yet it only ever felt too short. 

The hints of warmth made him greedy, needy,  _ ravenous. _ He watched Tony with such intent it bordered on obsessiveness. But then, it had always been that way, for him. He was too intense, too wild, too keen, just  _ too much. _ Always, always wrong, somehow. 

And yet, this time, the subject of his attention only looked back at him just as covetously, with as much of that fascinated awe in his gaze as Loki. 

Neither of them could quite manage to hide how utterly bewitched they were, how magnetically attracted they seemed to be. 

And yet, it only seemed to make them more hesitant to move forward in their courtship. 

They teased, they spoke, they brushed hands, fingers, and yet neither quite dared to go much further for the longest time, as though they realized it was some sort of point of no return, as though if they went any further they would become so utterly entangled in each other’s life that they would never quite be the same. 

And then, after circling each other for weeks, they finally collided, a kiss that felt almost heart-wrenchingly tender in its desperation, hands grasping eagerly at each other in stark contrast to the tenderness of their lips slowly exploring each other. 

It was indescribable. 

His still heart missed a beat or three as Loki felt his eyes close on their own, melting into the kiss, sinking into his love as though they could become one if only they tried hard enough. 

The one who felt nothing and the other who felt too much. 

How terribly ironic. 

But then, when they were together, Loki almost felt… Almost felt as though the curse did not matter anymore. 

What did he care that he would slowly turn to an unmoving block of ice? With Tony nestled against his chest, his quick mortal heart fluttering under Loki’s hand, those soft silky lips yielding under his own, that warm breath, damp against his cheek, that subtle hint of stubble rasping against the delicate skin of his neck…

Loki had never felt so alive. 

In retrospect, it was rather ridiculous that Loki took so very long to notice. To  _ understand.  _

In the end, it took Tony asking him about it for him to finally  _ see. _ As they rested together in post-coital bliss, his head pillowed on Loki’s still heaving chest, he’d looked up with an adorably confused frown. 

“Hey, Loki… Is it  _ normal _ for you to have  _ two heartbeats?” _

Loki had blinked, utterly thrown, because  _ yes,  _ in fact, it  _ was _ normal. 

Because, in the course of those few months, with each touch, with each tender word whispered against willing lips, against shivering skin, under the path of mischievous lips and devious finger, slowly, little by little… 

Loki’s warm-heart had melted. 

_ His heart had melted. _

“The curse…”

Loki raised himself up on an elbow, too distracted to notice the sleepy protests of his lover as he rolled off him, flopping down onto the furs. His red eyes stayed glued onto his hand, his treacherous skin. 

Almost in a dream, he brushed his fingertips together, shivering at the input skittering along his nerves, at the sensations that finally filtered through his skin. He hunched over himself, disbelieving, trembling from shock. 

He couldn’t stop staring at his hands, as though he could somehow find the answer etched onto his palms. 

By his side, Tony shuffled closer, worry turning his words hushed and careful even as he laid his inked hand on Loki’s arm. 

The heat of his skin seeped into him, and Loki felt the fool for how long it had taken him to question this strange defect in the curse’s workings, in the cause of that malfunction. 

It didn’t feel quite real, and yet, while Tony’s touch was still most vivid to his senses, he could not deny that  _ he felt.  _

Now that he was paying attention, he could feel the softness of his furs under him, the gentle caress of the breeze coming through his high window, the tickling of his hair along his back. If he put his hands on his face, he would be able to feel them, if he traced a sculpture with his fingertips, he would perceive its contours. 

The persistent numbness that had plagued him for centuries… was gone. 

“The curse is gone.”

Anthony blinked, confused, even as some irrepressible, exuberant joy wracked Loki’s body, mad laughter coursing through him. He felt like dancing, like spinning around and flying through the sky. His magic was free now, able to reach out to the world without needing to sustain him any longer. 

Taking his Anthony— _ his heart-flame— _ in his arms, rolling them over until he could look down on his warm surprised eyes, honeyed gold like the flickering embers now resting in his breast—and  _ how had he not noticed?— _ he laughed, and laughed and peppered kissed over his lover’s skin until Anthony started laughing as well, overcome by the contagious feeling of joyful freedom and carefree abandon. 

Because  _ the curse was broken.  _

A devious light entered his lover’s eyes, something mischievous and teasing, the sign of something outrageous about to be said, and Loki could only wait with bated breath at what exactly his love would do. 

“Well, you know, every so often, I get a new psychic power. Really, a magical healing cock was only a matter of time, at this point.”

And Loki could only collapse in a helpless fit of giggles at the ridiculous notion, at Tony’s self-satisfied smirk, at the entire Universe being upended so beautifully around him while he remained blissfully oblivious. 

At having found himself the most charming, delightful,  _ ridiculous, literally heart-melting  _ love.  __

The world was looking brighter already. 


	20. G-1 Kink Sensation Play

Anthony was a devious and careful lover. 

Loki had never before shared the details of his curse with another, and it wasn’t terribly surprising to him that he would only do so now once it was already broken. 

He had never enjoyed the look of pity, horror, scorn or even  _ fear _ that appeared on people’s face when he spoke of it. 

He knew it was unlikely that such a thing would make Anthony balk, after all he of all people would understand how it could feel, how isolating lack of touch could be, regardless of reason.

Loki may not have needed to wear gloves on a regular basis, but the effect was much the same. His kin was greedy for any form of contact, gluing him to Anthony’s side more often than not and welcoming the same amount of tactile affection with eager abandon. 

Perhaps he truly did suffer from starvation of touch, or at least it was a theory the two of them had considered. 

But then, it did not account for how harrowing everything would be on his sensory receptors. More often than not, he felt raw or overwhelmed at the slightest things. 

It seemed as though only Anthony’s touch was a reprieve, a true balm to his soul. 

And his lover had certainly found a way to take advantage of it. 

With his limbs bound with soft rope, eyes clenched shut behind the soft silk blindfold, Loki was currently enjoying the most luscious of torments, a dizzying array of sensations overwhelming him until he could hardly think straight, wimpers falling from his lips like prayers from a desperate soul. 

It had been Anthony’s idea, of course, because his lover could be so cruel sometimes in his tenderness, but Loki had readily agreed, stubbornness, pride and curiosity being a potent and volatile blend on anyone, but on tricksters even moreso. 

Because Loki could never resist testing his own limits, stretching them and breaking free from their hold. He could never let a challenge pass unanswered. 

And, most significantly, he did not want any single remnant of that vile curse to control his life in any way. He had broken  _ free,  _ and if that meant flaunting his own comfort zone and forcing himself to go beyond his own capabilities, then so be it. 

Of course, his Anthony had not exactly  _ agreed _ with this plan of his, his face twisting with a raw kind of grief at the banked rage that Loki invariably directed towards himself, the deep seated self-loathing that had once made Loki claw off his own flesh. 

He’d soothed him with kisses and caresses, and they’d lost themselves in the carefree abandon of their lovemaking, but Loki knew Tony would remember that moment, that  _ weakness.  _

Perhaps, as he’d been informed that Loki’s immunity against Anthony’s abilities had waned, perhaps his Anthony had even gotten a glimpse of blood and cum mixing on ice and helpless desperation to  _ beat the curse.  _ At any cost. 

Loki did not feel ashamed, exactly. 

He had not been raised to feel shame, nor did he see the use of the feeling, seeing all too clearly how his peers were so easily manipulated by that phantom threat. Honor, standing, propriety. 

Loki, God of Freedom, did not, as a rule, feel shame. 

But he would much rather had his lover not seen this dark time of his life. 

Even though he knew without a single shred of doubt that Anthony would never judge him, would even  _ understand, _ maybe even help. And yet. 

Perhaps it was pride. That was certainly one of his many failings. 

And yet, nowadays, love overruled pride by far. So  _ that _ was how he found himself bound to his bed, the furs soft and decadent against his bare skin, the ropes silken and thrilling, the blindfold maddening in its whispery softness. 

Even just laying there was a torment, even caressed by luxury and softness, his skin screamed at him, begging for some unnamed thing, stimulus intoxicating him, even more so with the absence of sight to balance out his perceptions. 

And yet this was not a punishment. This was not the same manner of harm he would have inflicted upon himself had he had the chance. 

No. 

This was his way of offering his lover a chance to be there for him and help him heal. 

It might have been Anthony’s idea initially, to test out his response to touch and his limits in a safe environment, but this scene was Loki’s initiative. 

His way of proving his clever mortal that the previous madness was truly gone. That the desperation that had caused his frenzy so many years ago no longer had a reason to be there. 

That Tony would not risk coming to him one day to see him with blood covered claws and lacerations all over his body. 

Whether or not that was true remained to be seen, but with Tony’s warm hand as a steady presence over his heart, anchoring him to the moment, his voice gently soothing as he whispered praises against his ear, everything felt somehow more bearable. 

How strange that a mortal would be the one to give him strength thusly. 

Here, laid bare before his gaze, as though he were a sacrifice, and yet being worshipped so devotedly as though one of the gods of old, Loki never felt more vulnerable, nor more invincible. 

There was power in Anthony’s touch,  _ intent.  _ It was there with a single purpose, and that was to ground him, to keep his mind from wandering back down those dismal paths, to use his ever soothing influence to make those sensations wracking him  _ bearable.  _

So far, Loki was holding on to his sanity, clinging to the present, to his lover, letting arousal seep through him in a gentle pulse that had nothing and yet everything to do with that wretched state he’d found himself in when the numbness had hit. 

And yet, every breath was a battle. Every shiver a miserable trudge as he did his utmost best to  _ rewrite _ his own mind, his own expectations built up after almost a century of forced isolation. 

His mind clung to that hand as though it was the only lighthouse he could find in the middle of the storm, and his raft would be swept by the gale and cruple against the reefs if he did not hold onto it with all his might. 

His limbs were straining the bong, muscles tense, coiled to spring and yet restrained, always on the edge. 

Anthony was soothing him, constantly rubbing along his flanks, kind words and encouragements pouring from his lips even as Loki twisted, writhing against the furs and compounding on his torment. 

“So responsive…” 

The words were spoken with reverence, with awe and desire, and at that moment, Loki knew that this would not at all be like anything he’d ever experienced before. 

It couldn’t be, not with a lover who spoke of him like this, who touched him with such worshipful care.

And then Tony scraped a dull human nail along the kin line that swept down his chest. 

Loki’s back arched off the bed with a sharp cry, head twisting to the side as he bit his lips, hips starting to undulate against the bed, hopelessly looking for caress that did not come. And yet, at the same time, it meant that his backside was caressing the furs under him, the friction a delicious torment, a tantalizing tease. 

How long had it last been since he’d truly felt his body stir on his own? 

Recently, Tony’s touch has roused him, his body responding more and more readily to his lover’s care, but it was only a trick, a clever workaround. 

With just himself, the touch of the world around him, the world echoing through his magic, the sensuality of his kinlines making him writhe and tremble with need, arousal cresting over him like a long lost friend… 

It had been too long. 

How freeing it was to let himself seek his release with abandon, to be able to feel wanton and needy without the curse walling him away from his own body. 

Loki threw his head back with a whine. Slowly, without him even noticing, the flood of sensation that had him overwhelmed previously now felt like a cruel bait, a taunt hinting at what he  _ could _ have if only he could obtain the slightest bit  _ more. _

How did it come from torturous to enticing?

Not for the first time, Loki wondered just what exactly his little mortal was capable of, how exactly he had managed to unravel the curse so easily and smoothe over the sharp edges it had left on his mind. 

He was losing his mind with need, pent-up arousal flooding his veins with no outlet, his skin sizzling with a desperate  _ yearning,  _ with a boundless hunger that could not be satisfied, no matter how much he rubbed and twisted against those new sensations. 

Anthony saved him, again. 

He hushed him softly, caressing, soothing, before lifting himself over and straddling Loki’s thighs, settling the curve of his ass decisively against Loki’s hardness. 

Bold, brazen,  _ fiendish _ little thing. 

Loki’s his jerked up a couple times, jostling Tony even as the devious mortal shimmied his bottom against the all too sensitive skin of his groin. Anthony retaliated by tracing over each of the lines decorating Loi’s torso, caressing them, scratching at them, rubbing, even  _ licking _ them. 

Loki  _ sobbed. _

He was going mad. His mage-sense was going wild, as though some blindness and stimulation along the traces of his ancestors was enough to reawaken the olden magicks that ran through his veins. 

Perhaps it was. 

Perhaps it was a clever trap designed to send young, sex-addled mages to their ultimate end, driving them to madness and delirium. The galaxies sang to him, eons of histories, past and future, ludicrous or blissful, impossible or redundant... 

He could no longer make the difference. 

He wondered if that was what Anthony was going through on a daily basis. 

Perhaps it was only the barest hints. 

He would not know. Loki had never truly dabbled in mind magicks. 

But it was enough to tip him over the edge, limbs tensing as his hips stuttered, jets of cum spurting from him even as a strange lethargy took over his body. 

His skin still felt sensitive, sparking like a live wire at the slightest touch, shivering at the slightest sensation, as though every inch of skin had been reignited through his orgasm. 

And perhaps it had. 

Loki could  _ feel  _ the devious smirk on his lover’s lips. Even while blindfolded and half basking in a tormented afterglow, he could sense the mischief brewing in the air, devious intentions involving him in  _ some _ ways. 

He shivered in anticipation, Anthony’s chuckles ringing ominously in the air. He smiled back, challenging, daring his love to do his worst. Loki’s senses tingled with the mortal’s glee, but within the trick was a heady blend of desire and affection, something warm and strangely protective. 

Safe. Here was Loki, playing along the edges of something that had wounded him deeply enough to leave soul deep scars, and he felt absolutely safe. 

He truly had chosen his lover well. 

Blunt nails scratched along his kin lines, catching on the hard nubs of his nipples, sending bright sparks of traitorous delight along his nerves. His skin was too sensitive, too  _ responsive,  _ and already overwrought. 

Barely a touch, and turning Loki was already turning into a panting mess. There was much more that Anthony had in store, he knew. It wouldn’t do to tap out this soon. 

“Come on, sweetheart. How do you feel?”

Loki mustered a smirk, eyes open to the sky behind the silken blindfold. 

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, but the words were clear. 

“I feel like A man whose lover thinks him made of frost crystals. Did you somehow forget what you were planning? Or are you worried that I would  _ break?” _

Anthony let out a bark of laughter before leaning down, his breath puffing against Loki’s parted lips. 

Loki inhaled, greedily taking in the smell of human sweat and sex. 

There were many smells that he associated with his midgardian lover, many of which were more linked to the alienness of humanity and not truly specific to Anthony. He had not met so many midgardians in his life that he might be able to make the difference. 

And yet  _ this _ scent truly  _ felt _ like his lover. It called to mind the many hours spent tangled into each other, the trail left through his rooms after Anthony left, the taste of their kisses. 

He wanted to lick it off his skin and gorge himself with it. 

He bit his lips against the temptation, fighting against the sudden urge to taste, to  _ touch, _ to bury himself in Tony’s arms and let him buffer out the rest of the world. He was  _ so close, _ just a hair’s breadth away from a kiss, and Loki wanted it.

Bucking up his lips to unbalance his lover, arching his back to raise himself just a little bit more, to have just the barest brush of their lips, just a taste… 

But Anthony only darted away, tutting gleefully at Loki’s thwarted efforts, taking sadistic satisfaction in his lover’s helpless writhing. Ruthless. 

Loki slumped back, hissing at the widespread feeling of fur tingling over his back, of Anthony shaking with laughter over him, of his arms starting to ache with coiled tension, of his cock, soft against his belly.

Then again, he  _ had _ put himself at his Anthony’s mercy. Or lack thereof. 

Taking the reins himself was not exactly  _ allowed,  _ in this case. 

But then, one could not blame him for trying, could they? 

A self satisfied smirk grew on his lips, widening at the echoing mirth he could feel coming from his lover. And at the darkness lurking behind the amusement, the expectant lust and deviousness that only made Loki more curious as to what his mortal had in store. 

It sure seemed promising, if the impressions he got from his magic were any indication. 

“Naughty naughty prince. _ What _ am I going to do with you, I wonder?”

Well, now. It was almost  _ too _ easy.

“I would not know, darling. And it does seem that neither do you. Such a pity. I could help you out, of course. Are you perhaps  _ indisposed? _ It’s nothing to be ashamed of, after all, one out five midgardians-”

Loki’s words cut off on a moan, Tony’s lips soft and hot against his own, the softest edge of teeth making him tremble under his lover’s hands, disarmed by the heartwrenching blend of gentleness and cruelty.

Tony licked inside his mouth, a quick mischievous pass that left the tastes of vanir spices and jotnar mead blooming against his tongue. 

Loki’s eyes snapped open. 

He didn’t know when he had first closed them. The tenderness of his lover’s lips had ensnared his senses, and he’d let his guard down, but the quick nip of blunt teeth and the tingling heat of meryl peppers was quick to remind him. 

Dark whispers against his lips had him moaning, gasping at the images called forth, the sensual promises that seemed the most enticing of threats, visions of himself twisted at his lover’s mercy, begging desperately, held on the edge at his Anthony’s whims. 

Loki wanted it. He wanted it with a fervor he had seldom encountered before, he  _ needed _ it in the same way he had need of the air in his lungs. 

His breath caught, trembling at the thoughts, at those devious words enthralling him, twinning around his soul like the most delicious of seals. 

He felt helpless, cracked open until every slightest corner of his soul was left exposed to Anthony’s eyes. 

And he… was blind. 

Gentle hands caressed his flesh, soft then firm, digging deep into his muscles before leaving with teasingly delicate brushes. 

Quick fingers painting abstract shapes over his skin, leaving behind tingling trails of heat before pressing down, digging deep, almost bruising relief following their wake. 

His body had become a map of throbbing, tingling looseness, muscles tamed and kneaded into submission, pulsing with soothing warmth. 

Everything was warm. 

Anthony’s hands were firm yet gentle as they worked over him, then guided him, manhandling his body with careful strength, lifting him up and shuffling his limbs around. 

Loki let him, docile and drowsy,  _ trusting. _

When more ropes started winding around him, soft silken ribbons holding his limbs together, knotting around his body over and over, trussing him up until he could not make the slightest move without feeling its hold on him, restraining him. 

He gasped in a breath, feeling the agile fingers of his lover testing the bonds, their give, their strength . 

Anthony was careful and patient, attentive and experienced. Loki felt safe, and yet the feeling went deeper than that, he felt settled, and  _ supported _ in a way he rarely did. Anthony was there for him. 

He felt  _ precious.  _ Cherished. 

With each of those binds, on every inch of his skin, his lover’s claim on him was there, physically holding him, cradling him in its embrace, digging into his flesh. Restricting but never in a way that actually felt  _ constricting.  _

And should he say the word, they would be gone in a blink. There was no doubt about it in Loki’s mind. Anthony would not harm him. 

Instead, wrapped up and restricted of his own free will, he felt like he was flying. 

How strange for the God of Freedom to relish in such restrictions, to find comfort into that hold, those  _ bonds. _

He found himself shifting, just to feel those ribbons dig into his skin, catching on his lines, sliding over his skin. He tugged and twisted, wriggling, lost in the sensation, in the blissful torment he was inflicting on himself the more he moved. 

Anthony soothed him, hands caressing his flank as he hushed him, firm hands caressing the sensitive flesh, wiping away his tears. 

Loki sobbed, the relief hard to swallow against the overwhelming flood of sensations he was drowning into, and yet, everything felt blissful,  _ easy.  _

He could let go, of his worries, his duties, his everything, become pure sensation and relish in the tempestuous feelings. 

He was a God of Chaos and never had he felt himself embody this more, as though every inch of him was a brewing storm, a coiled spring waiting to detonate one of Athony’s machines. 

He was all too aware of his own body, the expanse of his skin, where he ended and where the rope began. He was coming alive, coming  _ alight,  _ every part of him was tingling, tickling, pulsing, throbbing. He was pushing back against his bonds, without any real intent to free himself, just the desire to feel their unyielding grasp upon him, the way they pulled tight against his struggles, the way his skin gave under the pressure. 

Anthony’s weight on his hips was a reassuring weight, anchoring him to the world and keeping his steady, grounding in a way the unliving could not be. 

Warm hands were still roaming his body, a delicious counterpoint to the uncompromising hold, a soothing touch that calmed his roused flesh, helping him breathe out the restless energy that kept rising inside of him. 

A featherlight touch started teasing at his jaw, tickling, tingling, not the warm-alive of Tony’s hands but something incredibly softer, maybe even velvety. It traced a smooth line along his ribs, tickling, lines rising along its wake. His muscles quivered at the touch, that single point of focus that eclipsed everything else. 

It widened and thinned in turns, catching on kin lines, a harder ridge in the center almost scrapping over them before smoothly sweeping along them once more. It was so incredibly  _ soft,  _ sometimes becoming almost cloudy, a strange downy sort of caress. 

It was a bloody  _ feather.  _

Loki jolted, jerking, squirming as it coursed over him, so soft it barely touched him and yet he could feel it like a brand, so  _ aware _ was he of the contact. Laughter almost bubbled up in reaction as it barely grazed his chest, his lines, gliding down his belly, swiping along the valley of his hips, on the sides of his thighs. 

Anthony shifted down his legs, rising above him, taking his weight away to hover over him. 

His muscles tensed and jolted in reaction, making him twist and struggle some more against his bonds. 

It felt unbearable, almost, the feather’s touch too soft, too faint, and his whole being was straining against that almost touch, but Anthony’s weight was not there anymore to ground him, he was gone, and Loki was lost amidst the sensations drowning him in. 

“C’mon Loki, breathe. I’m here.” 

The voice was hushed, barely a whisper breathed against the skin of his jaw, but Loki clung to it like a lifeline. 

He breathed out. 

His lover was still there, legs bracketing him, breath warm over his neck, his hand a heavy reassuring weight on his chest. 

And then the feather glided even lower, caressing, igniting the skin of his groin and tickling along his cock, ripples of pleasure skittering over his skin, curling his toes.

Loki gasped, whining, trembling. His hips jerked up, cock throbbing under this tender form of torture, weathering those caresses so delicate where he only desired a firm grip to finally give him blessed relief. 

And yet, his cock was still hardening, still responding to his lover’s cruel teasing, throbbing in time with the pulse beating in his ears. 

_ “Anthony!” _

A low hum answered him, Anthony appearing almost distracted, so focused was he on his task. 

Loki felt the ropes tightening around him like a lover’s embrace, even though his  _ actual _ lover was still there, hovering over him and barely touching him anymore except for that infernal downy thing, winding him up and denying him what he truly  _ needed. _

“Do you need something, love?”

And of course loki could hear the seeds of rascalry hidden inside those words, the promise of coming shenanigans, the low almost-threat wrapped in the midst of that sensual promise. 

He just did not care. 

_ “More!” _

Or perhaps he  _ did. _ Perhaps he only wanted to see how far his lover would go if pushed, see how he would react to provocations, how he would play his hand. 

Loki was curious like that, he always wanted to  _ push, _ to go further, to test the limits of those around him. Sometimes it meant people would react harshly, angrily. Call him names and avoid him. Look at him with suspicion. Sometimes it meant people found him irritating or unbearable. 

He never cared. He couldn’t. 

It was in his nature to  _ push,  _ to know. To  _ test. _

And, it seemed that it was in Tony’s nature as well, to try and be tried, to push back and find the limits. 

They were well matched in that vein, but where Loki had inside him a bitter, biting edge—too used to betrayal and disappointment, too used to people dismissing him or excusing him out of pity—where his games were too often fueled with spiteful poison, Tony still had a gentleness to him. 

A sadistic streak buffered by gentle care. 

That was why Loki had offered the reins on this one. He could trust Anthony with his own wellbeing. He could trust him to push, but not to break. To make him suffer, but with kindness. 

To perhaps heal the wounds his own claws had gouged into his soul. 

When the cold struck, it tore a scream from his throat, more from surprise than from anything else. 

Who else but a Midgardian would try to use  _ ice _ against a  _ Frost Giant, _ after all? 

But Loki could  _ feel it,  _ its cool smooth surface caressing his skin with the slightest  _ sting _ of a burn. 

Not just regular ice, then. 

Loki felt like laughing madly, wildly, incredibly pleased with his clever, clever mortal. The ice chips sizzled against his skin, actually  _ melting _ against his cold skin, drops of freezing water sliding down his side, pearling against his lines, dripping along his ribs. 

Loki hissed through his teeth at the wintry touch, the wet trails seemed to almost attract the frigid breeze. 

It had been much too long since Loki had been able to feel the cold. Since he had been  _ warm enough _ to sense a difference. 

He had not noticed that change either. 

Just how many of his secrets would his lover unveil, on this day?

How many ways would he make him tremble? 

With drops of liquid ice running down his sides, following the edges of the ribbons binding him, holding him tight, that cursed feather teasing at his cock, the maddening caresses of his own furs and the faint taste of spices still warming his lips, Loki did not dare guess. 

He loved it, every single moment of it, his helpless trust, the constant and relentless assault upon his senses, the way even his eyelashes brushing against the silken blindfold had ripples of tension tingling down his spine, and yet, with pleasure and arousal flooding through his veins, it no longer felt grating. 

No, sensations only compounded on bringing him higher and higher, twisting him into a desperate thing completely swept away by his own need. He had become a wanton creature, one driven by sex and sensations, kept from drowning only by the steady voice of his partner, a lifeline in the middle of the storm, a raft on the whirpool. 

Desire was coiling inside his belly, twisting through him, his cock pulsing with the coming of his incoming orgasm, and yet he could find no release, his peak still out of reach as his body was balloted through the currents of his own urges. 

His warm-heart was beating too fast, thudding against his chest in a counterpoint to his cold-heart that felt both alien and familiar. It was strong, unbelievably strong for something that had spent most of the century sleeping. 

But then, perhaps it was only truly awake under Anthony’s touch, answering his call like that of a syren, rushing to please him in any way it could, so enamoured was it for that clever mortal. 

Loki could empathize. 

His skin was greedy for any and every stimulation, taking in everything with a voraciousness that would have scared him had Anthony not been there, giving him more and more to sate the starved beast that had awakened in his breast. 

Loki could not think anymore, did not want to, because if he did, the spell would break, and the caresses of fur and silk and water would turn back into the unbearable torment they’d become ever since he’d started noticing them,  _ feeling them _ again. 

And yet, somehow, he didn’t think it would be the case. His magic was tingling along his nerves, traveling freely across his skin in a way he could not remember having ever felt before. 

He could feel  _ everything,  _ down to the smallest flakes of snow falling upon them from the open window, and the oncoming storm called through his magic brewing over their dorms. 

He was everywhere, and yet he never felt more settled, more himself. As though his skin finally fitted him  _ right,  _ yet he’d never known before that it had even been wrong. 

All of this was unbearably  _ good,  _ and yet, somehow, not enough. 

Never enough. 

He was so close, so very near his peak, his magic brewing under his skin, coiling, sizzling, coursing through his veins like a living thing, asking,  _ demanding _ his release. 

But Loki was helpless, entirely at his Anthony’s mercy, his orgasm held at bay through the whims of his cruel and beautiful lover, and not even the insistence of his own magic twisting through him could overrule the mastery Loki had given him over himself. 

But he could still beg, words rushed and barely coherent, plead and gasp his lover’s name in a desperate prayer, even while his body twisted and trembled under those steady hands. He was shaking apart, on the brink of shattering, and only Anthony held him together. 

_ “Please!” _

Desperation clung to Loki’s words, mangling his usually perfect pronunciation and making his voice break. He was pure sensation, did not even notice the blindness, with so much of the world filtering in through his skin. He was but a snowflake caught in the storm brewing outside, a fucus stone being filled beyond its capacity, cracks running over him as the energy brewing inside struggled to break through. 

But Anthony was there, his lips gentle onto his own, his breath calm and warm against Loki’s trembling mouth, tender as they drank in the tears that had escaped Loki’s eyes unbidden. 

“Yes, love, let it go.”

But Loki  _ couldn’t. _ It was too much and too little at once, a constant torment that never let him rest but at the same time never gave enough to push him over the edge, only winding him up tighter and tighter as the fissures grew ever deeper. 

He sobbed, magic crackling through the air, wild and scrambling to get free, savage in its quest. It was tearing him apart, and yet it did not hurt, it only brought him  _ relief.  _ Almost as though it was eating away at old, stale,  _ tainted  _ energy and leaving room for the pure magic that had started replenishing since the curse was broken. 

But Loki could not care about that, could not do anything but battle against himself, trying to break apart that restrictive cocoon that muffled his magic, old shard of curse-ice still clinging to him. 

He gulped in great lungfuls of air, relishing as it stung his lungs, burning in a way he’d never felt before. He was too hot, feverish, and yet it felt good,  _ new.  _

He gasped out his lover’s name, amidst prayers to the norns and the more incoherent pleads, hands clawing at the sheets and body writhing in his bonds. 

He was  _ so close.  _

And then something  _ hot,  _ almost burning, sizzled against the already raw skin of his nipple, dripping down his kin lines in a sunburst of agonizing delight. 

He saw stars, hips jerking up helplessly as his orgasm hit him like a  snow pachyderm barreling into him at full speed, cock bobbing in the air with each spurt of white come spruting from him in long ropes. 

More drops of burning sunlight fell onto his oversensitive skin as he howled through his release, one drip after another torturing him so sweetly, consuming him. The pain was throbbing through him with unadulterated pleasure, raw and burning, brands of terrible delight driving his pleasure only higher and higher. 

Everything was twisting in a flood of unbearable rapture around him, his magic flaring around him in a great burst, shattering every last restrictive link left inside of him. 

He felt  _ free.  _

Loki, God of Freedom finally  _ unleashed. _

Outside, the storm crackled, thunder and hail twisting together, great balls of fire erupting into colored sparks and falling across the Academy. Loki was distantly aware of his magic running rampant, elated and out of control, of his body heaving with exhaustion and a sated kind of looseness. He felt strangely sore, as though he had been running for days, and yet he had seldom been so motionless for so long. 

His breath was heaving, his body wrung out, drained, skin tingling,  _ buzzing _ with aimless energy that only served to tire him  _ more,  _ but Loki could barely focus on any of that. 

Anthony was there, unwinding the blindfold with trembling hands, eyes worried and tender as they looked over him, searching and perhaps  _ finding _ something in Loki’s red eyes. 

A slow, gentle smile grew over the tanned face, radiating warmth that had nothing to do with the candle still burning on the bedside table. Loki watched, enraptured, the love shining so pure through those honeyed eyes, watched as they watered with relief and tenderness before purpose hardened his gaze. 

Anthony started methodically unwinding the silkened ribbons, gently washing and massaging the skin with a concoction Loki recognized from the healing department. 

He handed him a cup of herbal draught, watching closely as he drank it all, slowly, limbs still trembling faintly. Anthony steadied the cup without a word, eyes still trained on him, protective, watchful. 

Loki felt inordinately comforted by that. Even more so when, after finishing to drink the concoction to the last drop, Anthony carefully removed the bowl before settling himself by his side, cradling him in his protective embrace and whispering in his ears all of his pride and happiness, all of the ways Loki had been strong and beautiful and  _ good.  _

Slowly, Loki relaxed under the steady stream of praise, his shudders gradually coming to a stop, his breath evening out and his skin settling down. He fell into a pleasant haze of bliss, his magic thrilling around him like a thousand delicate windchimes, his lids heavy with incoming sleep. 

He felt at peace, in a way he had not in a very long time. Settled, and comfortable in his own skin. 

Somehow, handing Anthony the reins had healed the gouges he’d carved into himself the night his skin had fallen silent. 

It had been trying, incredible,  _ liberating,  _ and now Loki rested easy, safe and protected in his mortal’s arms. 

Anthony was a devious and careful lover, and he probably had a bit  _ too much _ fun in torturing him, and Loki would have no other by his side. 


	21. G-2 Fear Me Love Me Do As I Say… And I Will Be Your Slave. (second bingo!)

Loki had always been a God of Chaos. 

Mischief, Magic, Stories,  _ Freedom,  _ even Fire. All of these fell under the wider scope of Chaotic energy, though they were all, in some form or another,  _ ordered  _ chaos. They had rules, even if they were oft broken, either by those who didn’t know better, or by those who knew just  _ enough.  _

Regardless, it only meant one thing: Loki’s actions were not meant to be predictable. 

And no one would ever expect anything close to commitment from him, neither would they think it possible for him to be tied down by such a paltry thing as  _ sentiment.  _

More fools they. 

Loki’s love was an obsessive, all-encompassing,  _ chaotic _ thing. 

He loved like the tides, great swathes of emotions overflowing and sweeping everything away before his composure came back, leaving the place for gentle waves of affection. 

He loved like fire, like hearth fire warming and reassuring, like forgefire melting and reshaping the world around him, fueling infinite creativity; like  _ wildfire,  _ all consuming and endless. 

He loved like Stories, like Mischief and Freedom, like everything that he was, all of himself captivated by his clever and mischievous mortal. 

He loved, like the eye of the storm, grounding him within the endless tempest that was his life, a heaven from the chaos that followed in his wake. 

Instead of being part of the onslaught, he could be the conductor. He felt grounded,  _ anchored _ in a way he’d seldom felt before. 

Yet never stifled. Never  _ shackled.  _

No. Anthony had taken over his life like a whirlwind, bent him to his will and played his part masterfully. He had entangled himself so deep within Loki’s heart and soul he could never truly be cut away from him. 

All this, and more, without Loki ever feeling as though he was supposed to be anything but himself, but the truest expression of who he could be.

There was nothing more terrifying, never more  _ enthralling _ than this precious feeling, this marvelous bond he held with this man, this incredible Midgardian. 

The man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. 

The realisation was not overly long in coming, though it was quite a bit harder to accept. 

He had never truly expected himself to share his life with another. 

In fact he had not even expected to live long enough to reach his first millenia. 

No matter how bitter and poisoned, Sif had been right to say that his title as a Crown Prince was a sham. After all, a corpse could hardly reign over a Realm. 

But more than that, there had been a trend of thoughts, a sad association of marriage and restrictions. Shackles and poison. ‘A ball and chain’ some had said. It was even more true for the realms where political marriages still ran rampants, those where misogyny was still the norm, and females had barely enough agency to choose their own meal, let alone their life-partner. 

Of course, Loki knew better. He could see the care in his sire’s eyes whenever he looked at his mother, could hear in his words the trust and the faith they held in each other. The way they led the Realm as a united front, the way they helped each other carry the burden of the throne. 

That had always been his ideal partnership, whenever he’d allowed himself to dream of things that were not to be. 

What he had with Anthony was different. Not that quiet affection, that soft but strong love that grew over time the way the smallest drops could freeze one over the other to form great glaciers over millennia of patience. 

But Loki did not think it any less lasting. 

Because, as much as he admired his family, as much as the love binding King and Queen was the sort to make skalds sing epic ballads and serenades, Loki rather guessed that such a steady,  _ predictable _ thing would soon bore him. He would feel restless, aggravated, maybe even resentful, and such was a volatile combination for any god, let alone one ruling over Chaos. 

No, Anthony was everything to him, and, as much as he trusted, as much as he  _ knew _ his Anthony loved him back, there was always that small, shrivelled part of him that remembered  Bäalendr’s betrayal, the way his every secret had been spilled over to the populace, the way friendly smiles turned to scorn and disdain as the curse’s hold on Loki got deeper. 

But Tony had known Loki when the curse’s hold had been at its worst. He’d fallen in love at a time where Loki could barely even smile, let alone  _ feel.  _

And the curse had broken. 

It was rather ridiculous, in a way. 

The one person who would love him regardless of the curse… would never actually have to. 

But, did that really mean that they were truly coming into this relationship with the same expectations? Did they both have the same depth of emotional investment? 

Or would Tony fall out of love with him with the same ease Bäalendr had turned his back on him? 

There was only one thing Loki could do in this case, only one way he could ensure that their relationship lasted as long as the Great Glaciers, only one way to soothe the worried flutters of his overly emotional warm-heart. 

Perhaps the silly thing was hoping to catch up on all those centuries it had failed him, working double-time to make him feel everything twice as loud? 

Regardless, his Anthony was a mortal.

And Loki was not. 

They had spent together the five years of Anthony’s schooling, his last season of studies was coming to its end. He had of course applied himself with excellence, and had the blessing of every one of his instructors, but Loki was not ready to let the midgardian go. 

Would never  _ be _ ready to let him go back to his realm, to his former life as a mortal man, let him be swept away along the sands of time to wither in a matter of  _ years.  _

The mere thought of his Anthony  _ dying  _ sent his overachieving heart in a tangle. It squeezed inside his chest, skipped a beat then rushed and thumped against his ribcage, fluttered and twisted. 

It made no sense and yet, somehow, Loki rather shared the sentiment. A world without Anthony did not seem worth beating for. 

There was a spell, old and forgotten. Something that fed on devotion and affection, something that transcended the ages. 

An old ritual that bound together two willing souls, beyond time and realms. 

Loki had always been fond of old things. The dusty books of his Sire’s Archives never judged him, never considered him to be any different from any other curious child. They only judged him for the way he treated them. 

In fact, there was probably more people cursed within their pages than anyone could ever meet in their lifetime. He was no longer  _ strange,  _ or  _ pitiable.  _

To them, he was only  _ familiar.  _

Of course, few books had so much personality as those kept within the walls of Útgarðar’s Halls. After Eons, they had started to… take a life of their own, so to speak. And the words within them had grown more and more imbued with power, more and more  _ capricious,  _ as they took on the personalities of their characters. 

Some had been spellbooks, and their words of power had taken root within the essence of reality itself. Others, mere tales of fancy, had grown their power over time. Historical treatises had grown a power of their own, some sort of clairvoyance perhaps. 

The little red book had been none of those, and yet all of them at once.

It had a snarky and mercurial voice, that of a scorned and lonely king, one who played by his own rules and used any underhanded trick at his disposal in order to succeed. One who would do anything for love. 

Perhaps such a man was not the most suited of influences to teach a young and impressionable mind the intricacies of romance. 

And yet, at the same time, the unpredictable and volatile king understood Loki in a way few people did. His intensity, his obsessions, his sometimes disproportionate reactions. 

The way the power at his fingertips made him able to bend the world to his will with but a flick of his fingers. 

This gave them both a strange kind of status, both above the rest and yet intrinsically linked to them. It made the both of them isolated and looked with something akin to both pity and wariness. And after  Bäalendr? 

Jareth was the most relatable person he could have met. 

And yet, Loki had never understood his obsession, his  _ devotion,  _ before. Not until Anthony. 

And now, he found himself on the edge of that very same precipice, his world crumbling to pieces around him, the sky turned upside down and the stars twisted around, just on the whims of his mortal lover. 

He found himself… in love. 

And he knew better than to reproduce the same mistakes the Goblin King had made, knew better than to do anything to drive away his love. 

To trick him, blackmail him, or attempt to bewitch him. 

Just because Jareth had become something of a mentor and confidant did not mean that Loki was blind to his faults. 

Loki had the advantage of time on his side. Time and honesty, the slow maturation of their relationship, the growing trust between the two, all of those were cards that Loki had carefully put in his hand over their years together. 

He did not know if it would be enough. He  _ hoped  _ it would, but then, so had Jareth. 

And so had  Bäalendr. 

What then would be the result of his mad gamble? 

He could not simply let the situation stand as it was. He could not possibly keep being Anthony’s lover, and only just that, because to do so would be to lose him. 

He had to speak that spell. He had to obtain Anthony’s consent, had to make him  _ his  _ in a way that was unadulteratedly definite. In a way that would weave the thread of their souls together until the end of time. 

It was the only choice. 

Loki dreaded it. 

But then, perhaps he should trust in his lover instead. Trust in the one who had seen his broken parts and did not recoil. Trust in the one who had mended his sharpest edges, just so that Loki would no longer cut himself on them. 

Perhaps, then,  _ perhaps _ there was hope for him.

Perhaps he would not end like the Goblin King, having tasted love then fallen to pieces at the rejection. 

But then, Loki could never really make things easy for himself. 

He was a Trickster at heart, and as a God of Magyck, there were certain protocols he must adhere to. 

One of them was dramatic and cryptic speech. Another was grand and ridiculous gestures. 

Perhaps the feathered cloak was influenced by Jareth’s own bid for true love, but Loki did not begrudge his magic’s choice. So clad in that raven cloak, the feathered collar blending with his own dark tresses, his warm-skin glowing as pale as the snow against the light of the full moon, he waited for his lover to join him. 

The cove was a beautiful thing, Loki’s own favorite spot in the lands surrounding the academy. Half entrenched in deep ice chasms, deep, twisting tunnels going over and above each other in a long twisted labyrinth, the smooth surfaces mirroring the world from so many angles one could hardly tell where the illusions started and where reality began. 

Amongst those, Loki’s form stood out, a dark figure reflected a thousand times amongst the stars, eyes glowing with the color of his unleashed magic. 

Green, like the spring that so seldom graced the plains of Jotunheim.

It had been a shock to find out that he was able to melt the blue flesh and come out in a skin that was more similar to those of the other realms. 

Anthony  had been there the first time his skin thawed. He had watched the surprise and worry in Loki’s eyes, the comflicted wonder, because every form of magic was a blessing, but to look so much like an Às, to have his skin warm and light like the tyrant who had cursed his very existence and had wanted him for a ‘son’ made it hard for him to swallow the change. 

Anthony had smiled at him, eyes soft, had taken his pale hands in his own gloved ones, and kissed him, sweetly, deeply. Long enough to make Loki feel lightheaded and out of breath. 

Long enough to forget what had scared him in the first place. 

When they had talked about it later, it was with a steadier mind and  a much calmer disposition, enough that Loki had finally been able to word his worries. 

And Anthony had listened to him. Had been there at every step of Loki’s research, had been by his side when he’d found the text on ancient jotnar and their warm-skin, on the shapeshifters of old. 

Had seen his relieved tears and his obsessive research, his single-minded descent into endless experiments, his battle against self loathing. 

Not once had he spoken of his own tastes regarding Loki’s skin, not once had he ever expressed a preference in one or the other. His only concern had been that Loki be at peace with himself and whatever needed to be done for that to happen. 

Of course, Loki had been too distracted at first to notice, but afterwards he had been grateful. Grateful, and wary. 

Was Anthony’s lack of stated preferences a way to spare Loki’s feelings? 

Of course the worry was ridiculous. Anthony had never once seemed to appreciate him only for the exotic color of his skin, and to think otherwise was to do him a disservice. 

But then, there was little that Loki could hide from Anthony, regardless of his apparent immunity to psychic powers. Loki’s insecurities had been swiftly unearthed and just as quickly proven unfounded. Anthony had assured him that he found him beautiful, whichever skin he chose. 

Since then, Loki took care to accept himself, and whichever skin he might be wearing. 

The warm skin had come on its own, this night, along with wide, many pronged antlers. Even without looking at them, he knew them to be black as night, their many prongs knife sharp and pointing straight at the sky. 

_ This _ was a shape he knew well, though he had not often taken the mantle. 

The situation called for it, after all. 

His raven cloak fluttered around his feet, whispers echoing along the winding tunnels, the heavy breaths of the great wargs had his hearts beating heard within his chest, finally in unison. 

In his mind, the memories of warm hands and moist breath were cradled preciously, empowering the magic shivering in anticipation under his skin and spilling from him in glowing bubbles, lighting the area with a thousand magical fireflies. 

Wisps. 

Loki hoped they steered him well. 

Anthony’s steps crunched through the heavy snow, his human feet clumsy in navigating Loki’s natural habitat. Loki smiled, endeared by the low curses uttered from the usually well-spoken and polite man, the frustrated shuffles and unshakeable perseverance of the mortal he’d chosen as his own. 

Tilting his head to the side, Loki let his senses extend through the ice, under the mortal’s feet, within the ice crystals that coated the air, the mountainside, the mortal’s coat. 

He let his voice travel through the emptiness, through the mile separating them, echoing over the mountains, along the walls of the chasm closing over his lover. 

“Anthony, my darling, my love.” 

The ghosts howled around him, low keens resounding around them. The mortal jumped, surprised, head swiveling around, looking for the source of the voice. 

He would not find it. 

“Anthony...”

Loki was too far, lost amongst the twisted paths of his ice labyrinth, the spider slowly waiting for the fly to come, the predator lying in wait for his prey. 

He could see everything, hear even the softest of snowflakes, the faintest humming heart. 

But Anthony was but a mere human, regardless of how exceptional. 

He had no chance against a God. 

“Precious…”

The mortal was worried now, treading carefully, keeping close to the walls. 

The air was chilly, misting before his face, the silence foreboding, a stillness that belied the oncoming tempest. 

Everything was waiting, with bated breath, anticipation sending their hearts racing, their paws swiping at the ground. 

Loki watched, enraptured as Anthony started walking faster, calling his name in earnest now. 

It would not help him, the poor darling. Nothing could save those that became targets to the Horned God. 

“Would you like to play a game with me?”

This was the beginning of a Wild Hunt, and his  _ darling _ Anthony was the prey. 

He did hope the mortal gave him a good chase. 

With a savage laugh, Loki blew the Great Horn, it’s call ringing clearly through the many layers of ice. 

And with it, the Hunt began. 

Ravens cawed from up high in the sky, circling the two lovers as they danced through the chase, the deadliest game making their blood sing and their breaths heave. 

Anthony ran, as though his life depended on it, because as far as he knew,  _ it did. _

Great deadly wargs hot in pursuit, their coat black as night blending into the shadows and eyes, glowing as green as spring watching him eerily from every crevice he passed. 

Their every breath misted with green fog, the night dark and silent but for the desperate stumbling of the quarry. 

The fog became even thicker, a murky green thing that seemed to grasp at his clothes and drag him down, the snow deep enough to drag at his feet, ice sheets slippery and sharp enough to cut. 

Loki howled from atop his mount, his blood burning through his veins with the mad rush of the Hunt, his magic roiling around him in great tempestuous waves, chittering excitedly at the prospect of finding the one that belonged to them, running him down, subduing him,  _ claiming him.  _

He breathed in the sharp smell of creeping fear that started to seep through the winding paths, the sounds of desperation and a mad dash to save one’s life, scrambling hands and feet as their clumsy quarry stumbled along through the confusing mess of intertwined tunnels, losing himself deeper and deeper within the labyrinthine passages, not even noticing the moment where the Realm’s gravity made place for that of this liminal place. 

The growls of the wargs, playful and feral as they howled through the night, the steady roll of the beast’s stride between his thighs, the heat rising in his blood as they howled to the moonless sky. 

_ This.  _

This was Freedom. 

This was the Wild Hunt. 

Loki’s smile was fierce, and they bounded through the snow, their great paws silent and swift, magic crackling through the air, wild and hungry. 

“How you turn my world, you precious thing.”

Anthony cursed, his words panicked and gestures frantic, his escape comically clumsy amongst the disorienting terrain. He skidded to a stop on a high ledge, eyes wide with alarm as he finally realised how twisted gravity had become. 

He slid himself down the wall, gripping the ice as he watched Loki smirking at him from upside down, three wargs closing in on him from sideways, walking along the walls as though they too were as flat as the ground. 

No, in this world of their own making, illusion and reality blended together. There were no longer walls, no longer paths, no longer ups nor downs. 

And it seemed that his darling had only now realized. 

“Fucking  _ Hell,  _ Loki. I don’t know what you’re playing at but couldn’t you have done it without actually  _ breaking physics?” _

The ridiculous outburst startled a laugh from The Hunter, even as The Prey finally got his bearing and daringly jumped from the ledge, rolling to a stop on a path opposite Loki’s, before dashing off between the mirrored sheets of hice. 

“The  _ fuck _ is this about?”

Finally, he was starting to take that game seriously. To use his clever mind and put up an  _ actual challenge.  _

Good. 

It would not do to win  _ too easily.  _ There would be no fun if the prey did not pose a  _ challenge.  _

Loki cackled into the night, shape dissolving into that of a thousand crows scattering through the night, diving into every edge, every crevice of the place. 

His clever, clever mortal had found a way to hide, to disguise himself, his smell, his heat, his breaths, but that would never be enough to stop Loki.

Nothing would ever keep Loki from his chosen. 

“Oh, my love. How are you enjoying my labyrinth?”

His voice rattled through the thin blades of ice that splitted through the space, his laughter tinkling like chimes, like a thousand fairy songs. 

His lips twisted in a hungry smile as he whispered into his Anthony’s ears: “Now, now, my love. Ignoring me is not very  _ polite.” _

His prey jumped, screaming as he twisted around to face him. His breaths were heaving, his heart as wild and panicked as the hurried beat of a hummingbird’s wings. 

He was  _ caught.  _

“...Loki…”

The words were a breath, not quite of realisation, nor of relief. 

A simple fact stated. 

Loki’s smile turned satisfied. 

Clever mortal. 

“Not everything is as it seems.”

Anthony’s eyes looked up, taking in the bleeding antlers, the raven feathers framing his face, the sight of feral magic still crackling through the air, glowing from his eyes. 

“No, I suppose not.” 

So very clever. 

Loki had chosen well, truly. 

“Do you really want to know?”

It took a moment before Anthony understood what Loki was referring to, the last question he’d asked during the confusion. 

_ What  _ indeed was the point of this game? What was this whole thing about? 

But the rules of the ritual were restrictive ones, all of the Greatest Workings had their constraints. The more complex and powerful, the more precise and demanding the limitations. 

There were few lines Loki could speak, few words that were allowed to him by the spell he was working. 

And the main issue, the single most rigid conditions he must follow for the magic to work, was  _ spontaneity.  _

Authenticity. 

It was a play, a game of masks and a retelling of an ancient tale. And Loki could not, under any circumstances, break character. 

The universe needed to be convinced of that story,  _ Anthony _ needed to believe in those stakes. 

And so, instead of explaining, of laying his cards on the table and simply speaking out, as he knew Anthony’s midgardian sensitivities demanded, Loki twirled his wrist, conjuring a clear sphere of ice to the tips of his fingers. 

_ Showmanship.  _

He smirked at the mortal’s confused frown, at the questioning gaze skipping from the bauble to his eyes and back. 

_ Come, now, darling. Give me my cue.  _

And thankfully, Anthony was well versed enough in the theory of magical workings to have understood the issue, and to have interpreted Loki’s cryptic words correctly and inferred from that what manner of workaround he had suggested. 

“What is that?” 

Loki’s smile turned approving, his magic curling around his prey with smug possessiveness. 

_ Precious Thing.  _

Looking at his bright mortal from beneath his lashes, a devious smirk curling his lips, he made his play. 

“This?”, he asked, swirling the ball over his fingers, juggling it, enjoying Anthony’s fascinated gaze following the orb as it spun through the air. 

“It’s a crystal, nothing more.”

Gloved fingers nimbly caught the translucent ice bubble, deftly roiling in though his fingers, over the back of his hand, then back through his palm. 

His eyes never left Anthony’s, his smirk never wavering. 

“...But if you turn it this way…”

He moved closer to the mortal, watching his mouth part in anticipation, his enraptured gaze fixed on his. 

He lifted the ice crystal to stand between their line of sight, forcing his quarry to gaze deep into its heart.. 

“...It will show you your dreams.”

And hopefully it could show him all those things Loki could not tell him, his hopes, his desperate wishes for the future, and the offer he was making him on this night. 

Here Loki was, baring his soul. 

But, as his lover’s eyes widened with awe, gaze snapping back to his with a desperate question etched onto his face, Loki could feel a small seed of hope glowing into his breast. 

“It’s only forever, not long at all.”

The words seemed innocuous, whimsical, and yet, they held within them one of the most heartfelt pleas he had ever spoken. 

It was the greatest commitment one could ask for, but Loki would have nothing less.

Because  _ forever _ could be held in a heartbeat, could last for a lifetime and still seem as though time had flown by, as though it had been no time at all. 

Or it could trudge on, each second holding an infinity within itself, a never ending tedium that grated on the nerve like the most persistent of curses. 

Without Anthony, what meaning had immortality? 

Truly, his hearts would slowly quieten and freeze once more without that bright hearted mortal to melt through him, to liven his life and share in the playfulness, the intensity that made him  _ live.  _

A fire could not sustain itself on its own, after all. 

“Live without your sunlight, love without your heartbeat…”

And Anthony’s eyes had widened with the realization, the dawning understanding slackening his mouth as he looked around them with new eyes, taking in the glowing magic, the starry reflections of the sky turning the ice into a thousand windows into foreign galaxies, the tinkling of bells in the distance shivering with anticipation. 

Loki made the bauble disappear with a flurry of sparks, scattering it as it had now served its purpose. 

He stepped closer still, his gloved hand cradling his love’s cheek in a moment of tenderness as he steeled himself for what still needed to be done. 

On his brow, the antlers felt heavy, purposeful. 

“What… What should I do? What do you need me to do?”

Loki’s eyes hardened as he stepped back. 

“Loki?”

This was what he had been waiting for. This was the moment for him to speak the Right Words.

“Fear me.”

“What?” 

Anthony’s words seemed shocked as he recoiled into the wall of ice. It was too bad that Loki had not left him any opening, any way out. 

He came even closer, letting his breath fan over the mortal’s face, warming the reddened cheeks as he pleaded on a sigh, “Fear me, Anthony.”

The prey’s eyes widened with something close to realisation, something conflicted crossing his face even as his warm eyes traced over Loki’s changed features, almost obsessively. 

“Must I?”

But Loki could not answer, could not deviate from the ritual words. 

“Fear me.”

His voice did not rise above a whisper, nor did he attempt to intimidate. 

Perhaps he should have, but then, the mortal was  _ his,  _ a Precious Thing he had to protect, and while Anthony  _ should  _ fear the creature Loki became—the savage and terrible being that was at the root of his being, the most pure expression of his power—he should never actually  _ have to.  _

Because that power would never truly be turned against him. 

Regardless, that was the way it was done, so that was the way Loki must do it. 

Those were the Right Words that Loki had to speak, and that Anthony had to accept. 

But his mortal was cunning, and he knew by now that sometimes Loki lived by rules that were beyond mortal ken. He had seen it happen enough times for him to be able to intuit such a thing from Loki’s behavior. 

Hopefully. 

And indeed, a voice trembling with awe and eyes wide with the realization that  _ something  _ was happening, a strange ritual that he needed to be a part of somehow, Anthony spoke his agreement, trustingly following along the script Loki provided. 

Relief swept through Loki, his magic ringing with the first of their vows, gales sweeping through the twisting tunnels with their glee. 

But it was not over, not just yet. 

Because while Loki had been assured of Anthony’s faith and devotion, that was  _ before  _ the Hunt, before the reveal of Loki’s more  _ untamed _ nature. 

And so his voice did not rise, did not gain in assurance as he asked, almost plaintive, “Love me?”

And Anthony smiled, melting against him, golden brown eyes holding spring green steady, hands coming to rest on Loki’s face as he answered, “Always.” 

Loki sighed, letting his brow rest on his lover’s. 

“Do as I say.”

The words felt strange upon his lips, but he spoke them anyways. 

They were in a world of magic and magic had its rules. And Anthony was  _ his.  _

_ His prey,  _ his quarry, that he had hunted down and caught, his prize that he had  _ won.  _

_ And that he was now claiming.  _

“Yesss.”

The mortal rested in his arms, patiently looking at him, eyes dilated with desire. 

And Loki knew, without the slightest hint of a doubt, that Anthony  _ would.  _ That whenever Loki would let the wildness of the predator shine through his gaze, Anthony would bare his neck and purr, that he would turn pliant in his arms and play by the rules. 

He flashed a feral smile, eyes dark with need as the third vow rang through the air, sincerity and devotion blending with desire and passion. 

“And I…”

Magic shivered and sung, pressure building between the two, seeping from one to the other as the ritual waited with bated breath for Loki’s own claim, for his own offering to the bond. 

“...will be your slave.”

Anthony’s eyes widened, the Universe howled it’s mirth at Loki’s claim, the magic around them cresting finally with the completion of the spell, twisting, spinning, crashing down over them like the Great Waves, strong enough to shatter the glaciers, powerful enough to link together the life-forces of a Midgardian and a Jotun.

Anthony gasped, crumpling under the onslaught, the shock robbing him of breath and sense as Loki’s magic dove into him, filling him up, sinking into the very fibre of his existence. 

Loki had conquered him, it was irrefutable. He had won the Hunt and Claimed the Prey. 

Anthony belonged to him… And now, Loki belonged to Anthony in turn. 

Loki smiled, satisfied, as he cradled the sleeping human in his arms. No longer a mortal man, no longer a Midgardian, as Loki’s magic wrought its path through his veins. 

They had a lot to talk about, when he woke. 

And Loki still had his conquest to claim. 

He was planning on being very  _ thorough. _


	22. O-3 Kink Negotiation Talk

Power had always been a heady, intoxicating thing. 

But it also had its own pitfall. 

After a while, with magic strong enough to topple mountains at one’s fingertips, everything started to feel  _ bland,  _ too easy. 

Nothing was a challenge anymore, there was no  _ impossible thing _ to accomplish despite the odds, because the odds were  _ always _ in his favor. 

Of course, it was not entirely true, nor was it truly  _ always _ the case, but Loki was a Prince of the Great Realm, and one of the most powerful mages of the Nines. 

There was little that either of those titles could not offer him. 

It was seldom that he was asked to make compromises, or to bend his stance on anything he wanted. 

And so, quite often, Loki found himself considering the fact that Power was a heady thing… for anyone but him.

Loki was not used to wanting things, no more than he was used to being denied them. The Academy had given him the hint of a taste of both, desire for excellence and the search for competent teachers having been a pleasant distraction. But then, it was only just that. A  _ distraction.  _

With the power of the Hunt still rushing through his veins, the adrenaline sharpening his focus to a point, there was little that he would not be able to do should he wish it. 

But there was only one thing that he truly desired, only one  _ precious _ thing that was enough to hold his attention. 

Currently pinned down under him, Anthony was looking back at him with such trust, such a challenging smirk, Loki could hardly breathe. The no-longer-mortal man might be at his mercy, but he was certainly not  _ helpless,  _ nor was he about to just lay back and think of his country. 

What a  _ prize _ he’d gotten himself. 

A sharp smile pulled at his lips, hungry,  _ feral. _ This was his  _ hunt,  _ his catch, and now that the prey was secured, his bride claimed under the cover of the night and witnessed by Magic itself, it was time for  _ another  _ type of claiming, one of the flesh. 

To the victor the spoils. 

“What shall I do with you, my love?” 

The magic was still dancing around them, shimmering in delight at the sheer boldness of Loki’s move, at the madness of his gamble and his improbable win. 

But win, he had. 

And now, with Anthony laid there under him, with his clothing askew and his face flushed, there was nothing Loki wanted more than to  _ partake  _ in that willing flesh, to feast upon his lover’s delight and torment, to bask in his desperation and relish in his cries, his calls and pleas. 

Yes, there was nothing Loki wanted more than to ravish his human, except, perhaps, for Anthony  _ himself  _ to ask for it, for each and every decadent attention Loki wanted to bestow upon him, for each torment that would bring him bliss beyond kenning, for each  _ touch  _ they would share. 

There was nothing Loki wanted more than for his willful and cunning lover to beg for his own submission. 

And of course, the prize was only the sweetest for how challenging it was to obtain, how easily Anthony refused him,  _ thwarted _ him, no matter how playfully. 

Seduction was a slow game, one that Loki was well-versed in. 

But only as much as Anthony was at contrariness. 

Loki smirked, fingers sparking with magic as he laid them delicately over his prize’s clothed chest. 

The furs were bulky and thick, an adequate protection from the cold that became unnecessary when Anthony had fallen into his grasp. 

They needed to go. 

“I want to rip these from you.”

Loki’s voice was low and gravely, thick with desire, still overlaid with the many whispers of hunters past and stories untold. 

“I want to wrap you inside my magic and tear every shred of fur from your skin, bare you to my gaze as you lay there. My sweet prize, my willful conquest.”

Anthony looked up at him from under his lashes, a coy smirk upon his lips as he said:  _ “no.” _

“No?”

Loki recoiled, confusion and mirth blending through his voice as he squinted suspiciously down at his bondmate. 

He had certainly seemed eager to partake in carnal pleasures, when Loki had offered earlier. His eyes had darkened, his lips parting at Loki’s words of invitation, back arching just the slightest bit toward him. 

At this point, Loki knew his lover well enough to know when he was truly interested, when he felt arousal start to pool in his belly and cloud his mind. 

And all those signs had pointed in that direction. 

So  _ why was he saying no, then?  _

A giggle escaped Anthony’s mouth, quickly covered by a glove clad hand. His honey eyes shone with playfulness, the mittens not quite hiding the widening smile. 

Fondness warmed Loki’s heart as his curiosity sparked. He found himself more amused than not by the rejection and somehow quite eager to know what his mischievous lover had in mind. 

A game then. 

Magic and adrenaline was still singing within both their veins, calling forth a heady kind of giddiness, spilling from them both in waves and coating their surroundings with tinkling laughter. 

What kind of game would his Anthony propose, then? 

And was he aware of  _ who  _ he was playing against? 

“Why ever not?”

Where would he go with this? 

“Those are the warmest clothes I’ve got! I have no intention of sacrificing them for the sake of sex.” 

The mock outrage of his voice was anything but believable, especially with the way his lips strained to keep from smiling. 

Well. If this was the way his darling wanted to play, then who was Loki to deny him? 

“How would you like it instead if I were to peel your clothes from you one knot at a time, unwrapping you like the most precious of gifts?”

Anthony’s eyes widened at that, pupils dilating with arousal, throat bobbing as he struggled to swallow. 

Loki felt rather proud of himself. 

“That… that would be fine.”

Now, if so few words were already enough to have his voice so roughened, and the bulge in his pants stir under his hands,  _ how  _ would his poor darling react if Loki was  _ really  _ trying? 

Suddenly, Loki wanted to see it, see his lover entirely wrecked just with the power of his words, just from the promises he spoke and the way he followed through on them. 

“If I were to worship each inch of newly uncovered skin, until no part of you remained unexplored?”

Anthony made a strangled sound as Loki started unwinding the first knot that held the bulky furs closed, something needy and hungry in his gaze. 

Loki smirked, feral, certain of his victory. 

“...no.” 

Loki leaned back, shock and intrigue pooling in his eyes as he watched the mortal anew. There was a challenging glint in those warm eyes, something cunning and yet a nervous kind of hesitation, the seeds of a new game presented to a lover without quite knowing how it would be appreciated. 

Perhaps it was not just his words, the sensual promises spoken in Anthony’s eager ears that had the no-longer-mortal so responsive. 

Perhaps it was instead the way he indulged his game, the way he listened so easily to “no” and offered something else instead, some equally delicious alternative, something that could perhaps be accepted or rejected with no judgement, no strings or questions. 

_...Do as I say...  _

Loki smiled. He could play this game. 

It was a game of respect and trust, of mutual appreciation. There was nothing he desired more than to make Anthony feel as safe in his hands as Loki had when he’d been tied up at the man’s mercy. 

He did not know if it came from their vow, if Tony somehow had something to reassert, or if it was unrelated. Or perhaps he felt like he could trust him enough to offer an older fantasy. Or it might even be a spontaneous thing, a game born of a tease that sparked a new desire. 

He did not know, and he would not ask. 

He  _ would,  _ however, play along with his Anthony’s rules, he would offer and be denied and offer again, and tease his mortal to the point of bursting. 

Because, wherever the need for the game came, the growing bulge under Loki’s hand did not lie. 

“No? Then would you rather I scratch down your belly and as I take your cock in my mouth? Would you rather like that I lick along your hungry cock instead of your skin? Perhaps I could kiss along the crook of your hips, the delicate skin of your groin?”

His Anthony whined at that, eyes clenching shut as he shuddered, hips jerking up as Loki fondled him. 

“No?” 

The whisper was sensuous poison whispered in his captive’s ear, lips as soft as a feather as they traced over the delicate shell.

All the while his other hand kept unwrapping the bulky vest, because  _ that _ at least had received a ‘yes’. 

He wondered what it would take for the next one. 

As it was, Anthony was already shaking his head, a playfully stubborn glint in his eyes as he spoke, lips popping mockingly on the  _ ‘nope’. _

Loki’s smile sharpened, fiendish, as his competitive streak sparked to life, because he  _ would _ find something that was too arousing for Anthony to refuse, something that no matter how stubborn, he would not refuse. 

“How would you like it, then, if I were to tie you up, wrap you in those silken ropes you enjoy so much, leaving you spread open and vulnerable before me?”

There were few things Anthony enjoyed so much as to feel Loki’s power over him, his strength holding him down and the delicious helplessness that came with being held in the grasp of someone they trusted. 

Just as much as Loki sometimes enjoyed just the same. 

And, in that area, Loki had made quite sure that Anthony would be absolutely  _ ruined _ for anybody else. 

He let his lips hover over the delicate skin of his lover’s jaw, enjoying the tease of a kiss that he would not give. After all, hadn’t his lover said  _ no? _

_...and I…  _

Sometimes the denial was almost as enjoyable as the indulgence, and the game Anthony had started had Loki feel decidedly  _ puckish.  _

He was being denied his rightful claiming of his prize, after all. It was only fair that he found his revenge in the very game his love had instigated. 

Anthony's muffled moans and suppressed shivers were indeed a beautiful compensation. 

How long would he hold out, the stubborn man?

“I...”

Anthony’s voice  _ broke,  _ and wasn’t that a truly magnificent reward for Loki? A true testament to his skills, that his lover was already so wrecked, so hard and aching for him without Loki having done much more than speak, and perhaps grope. 

“Yes?” 

Loki made sure to keep his own tone light, slightly curious and inviting. Because this was a game of seduction, and as tempting as it was to gloat at the small win, it would be even more satisfying to have Anthony give in to him instead. 

It was not a  _ no _ yet, at least. 

“I want to keep my arms free.”

Loki tilted his head, interested. 

It was still not a no. 

In fact, it was more than he’s been given so far, a direction to follow, perhaps, a clue to help him find a key to the puzzle that had been presented to him. 

“I want… to touch you.”

Loki’s hand came to caress his darling’s cheek, peering deep into his Anthony’s eyes to find that note of vulnerability he’d been hearing. 

Just for a second, he let his own eyes soften, the mirth abating just long enough to let the raw affection he felt show through, just enough to show Anthony that this was but a game, that the thing that mattered most was his comfort. 

That should he wish it, should his refusal be more encompassing than a simple game between them, then Loki would stop and do his utmost to be there for him in whatever way he asked. 

_...I will be your slave.  _

“But of course, my love. As you wish.” 

And then the moment was gone, a roguish smirk pulling at Loki’s lips. 

“Would you not mind, then, if the ropes covered everything  _ but  _ your arms?”

His voice was but a croon, alluring and low as he unfolded the first layer of Anthony’s vests, inviting debauchery and indulgence. The hand still on the leather pants started circling the cock through the many layers, a faint tease but still an effective one. After all, the goal was not to overwhelm but to tempt, to  _ beguile, _ slowly, gently, even hypnotically. 

“What would you say if the ropes bound across your chest in those patterns you are so fond of? If they spread your legs for me, if they forced you to stay open, knees bent, hole on display before my hungry gaze, conveniently vulnerable for any nefarious design I could have on you?”

Anthony giggled at that, the playful threat rendered moot by the very question it was spoken with. But his breath had also gotten heavier, his squirming hips betraying how uncomfortable his hardness was becoming within the too restricting pants. 

Loki smiled back, glad to have erased the last notes of insecurity from Anthony’s composure. 

Now, he only had to be patient, and Anthony would yield to him. 

Eventually. 

But he always made the chase worth it, and that made the prize all the sweeter. 

And now, that faint tremble in those fingers, the bitten lip, the eyes clenched shut for but a moment, all those signs pointed to an imminent surrender. 

Oh, but Anthony  _ wanted _ this. 

Wanted to feel owned and claimed, just as much as Loki wanted to do the claiming. 

This was quite perfect. 

_ “Yes! Please…”  _

The words almost seemed torn from his bondmate’s throat, as though agreeing to anything Loki offered was a struggle in and of itself. 

And yet, the cock under his hand seemed to jump in his hand, each denial and agreement making his lover more and more desperate. 

There was something there, a game of power playing out between them, and Loki could not quite make sense of it. Because Anthony certainly did not seem to wish to be in control, but neither did he want to simply hand over the reins. 

It did not quite matter, of course. Their relationship had never been burdened with such ridiculous things as status, or any defined lines of dominance. It would have never held, otherwise. They were both much too versatile, too free of spirit to ever hold to a single role. 

If Anthony wanted to blur the lines of the game, it was his prerogative. And if he wanted a tug of war with who held control, it was also something Loki could be on board with, just as much as with cooperation or surrender. 

They were all different games, after all, and Loki was a master of those. 

And games of seduction were always particularly delicious to play. 

However, there was indeed something surprisingly satisfying to this bout of negotiation, something entirely  _ gratifying _ to receiving that first real ‘yes’ after all those rebuttals. 

And surprisingly, Loki found his  _ own _ cock twitch at hearing Anthony’s agreement. 

Well, now. That game had just gotten  _ interesting. _

By that point, he’d already removed most of the outer layers that Anthony was wearing, leaving him in a thin silk shirt and the thermal leather pants that Loki had gifted him when he’d seen what the wet soggy mess of  _ cotton _ was doing to his darling. That type of flimsy fabric was certainly not adapted to snow. It retained water like nothing else. 

But they were quite redundant at the moment. His magic was quite used to protect him against any discomfort brought by the environment. 

And Loki wanted his Anthony  _ bare.  _

Deft fingers slid under the shirt, dragging over the taut skin of Anthony’s belly, slowly peeling it off while being as much of a trease as Loki could be. 

And that was not a small thing. 

Mouth hovering just a breath over Anthony’s parted lips, he let the sound of their mingled breaths fill in the silence. The moment seemed to stretch forever, their gaze locked, something beyond intimate passing through them, the shared magic in their bloods  _ singing  _ its glee, its freedom, its  _ love.  _

He took the time to appreciate the sight of Anthony finally bared before him, vulnerable yet trusting, eager and still somehow  _ awed _ at the small facet of his Divinity that Loki usually kept carefully hidden. 

Not many Immortals were actually imbued with the power of Godhood, after all, and few had as  _ versatile _ domains as he. 

And yet, as much as Anthony had proclaimed to  _ fear him,  _ as much as he’d run before his wargs, as much as he’d struggled against his fog,  _ he was still there.  _

Loki felt both incredibly  _ lucky _ and smug, because, at the end of the day, it was  _ his choice _ to get involved with his Midgardian. And he did not think any other ploy of his had ever panned out so beautifully. 

Tenderly, he brushed his lips against his lover’s, feeling them warm and pliant under his, so very soft, and yet, he knew, no longer nearly as fragile as they’d been barely a few hours before. 

Because now, Anthony had Loki’s magic running through his veins, his immortality woven into his skin, his soul-thread twined around his own. 

And now, Loki would twine the lengths of arräachn silk ropes he had conjured around his lover. He would weave them around him in an inextricable net, would bind and truss up his captive as he wished, and display him for his own pleasure. 

And Anthony would let him. 

The rush was as heady now as it had been the first time that his mortal had surrendered to him, letting himself drown in pleasure with such magnificent abandon that he’d never failed to take Loki’s breath away each time. 

It was worship, in a way, the willing surrender of his freedom, of his agency, if only for a time, and yet the relish he took in the very freedom that constraint offered him. 

Just like the way Anthony took care of him when it was  _ Loki _ tied up at his mercy. 

Loki was an old hand at knotweave, he’d woven spells and nets since before mankind even knew what  _ thread _ was, it took barely a thought before his fingers took to threading the rope around his lover, quick efficient movements that manhandled his love as though it was barely an afterthought, while his eyes remained trained on blown pupils and heaving chest, carefully monitoring the reactions his love had, the tightness of the rope, the range of movement that were left to him. 

Anthony remained pliant in his grasp, eyes growing half lidded with the intoxication that came with that kind of submission, cock hardening with each knot. 

And yet, the glint in his eyes was anything but passive. 

There was a storm brewing in his Anthony’s mind, something impish that remained as sharp as ever. 

“And then? What do you plan on doing next?”

Loki paused, though it took barely a second before his hands returned to his task, folding up one of Anthony’s legs and securing it into his desired position. 

And if he gave the weeping cock a quick fondle on the way, then surely it must have been pure chance. 

So, Anthony wanted to keep up those games. 

Well, who was Loki to deny him?

“I could take advantage of your helplessness to finger you open, to play with your needy hole for hours, licking, teasing, tugging at that sensitive pucker until you’re desperate for something to  _ fill _ you. I could have you desperate and begging without even once entering you. What say you?”

But Loki knew before he even asked, saw it in the playful and stubborn glint in Anthony’s amber eyes, even as he let Loki bend his other leg as he willed, obligingly moving along with the ropes. 

Selective cooperation. 

Loki found himself increasingly amused at the thought. 

“No.”

Loki bent down then, a devious glint in his smirk as he asked : “and why not?”

If Anthony wanted him to make wild guesses as to what would please him, then the least he could do was give him a hint. 

And if he let his hands wander around his lover's hardening member while asking, well, perhaps his bondmate could use a little  _ incentive _ to make him more honest. 

Loki was usually quite good at making people talk. 

Anthony’s eyes rolled back for a groan, before he visibly got a grip over himself, swallowing, breathing out. 

Loki noted with glee that those breaths stayed a little shaky, even as his captive lover mustered the strength to look back at him.

“I…”

Anthony swallowed a few more times, hoping to steady his voice from the gravelly croak it had become. 

If Loki had any say about it, he would not. At least, not until Loki was well and truly finished with him. And that would not be anytime soon. 

“I want…  _ I want to feel you.” _

Loki’s breath stopped for a moment, a pulse of red-hot arousal crashing through him at the honest,  _ broken _ words. 

Well, if that was Anthony’s wish, then Loki could certainly deliver. 

He licked his lips, thinking of how he could put into words what he had in mind. 

“Anthony,  _ Precious.  _ Do you know, now, that my magic runs through your veins? It’s there, under your skin, in every drop of your blood, in every one of your breaths. It’s there, and should you allow it, I can call it forth.” 

Anthony’s eyes were blown with arousal, breathing ragged, cock leaking. His heart was hammering away under Loki’s lips as the god kissed his pulse, feeling his magic call to him from within his lover. 

“I can relax you until you are so very pliant that there would be no resistance, even if I were to breach you with my cock right now. I would not even need to touch you, not with a single finger, and yet your body would open itself to me.”

Loki grinned, nipping at the delicate flesh of Anthony’s jaw, nibbling until a reddened mark bloomed under his care. It would darken later, of course, and it was far from the only proof of his claim he would leave on his love before the night was out. 

Anthony moaned under him, his hips shuddering helplessly as he tried to shift inside the net Loki had woven for him. He would not be able to, of course, and that only served to heighten his arousal, to have him mewl even more desperately, his cock jerking with arousal as though it was silently begging for attention. 

Loki would give it to him, of course. 

In time. 

“You would be tight, of course. So very tight and responsive. You would feel every inch of my girth as I spear you open, every shift of my hips as I pound into you, slowly, unrelentingly. And you will be there, helpless and bound, completely at my mercy. You will take everything I give you and still beg for more, because that’s how greedy you are, isn’t it, love?”

Anthony whimpered, trembling with arousal,  _ just from Loki’s words. _

The power was heady, each reaction from his words making Loki even more eager, ever more aroused, because there was nothing more powerful than the rush of seeing a lover shaken apart with need under him. 

“Would you like that, then?”

The words were breathed against the delicate shell of an ear, with teeth gently pulling at the lobe, just to see how much of the tease Anthony would take. 

Just to see what would happen. 

Anthony gasped, his breaths reduced to mere pants, more lewd noises escaping from those lush, reddened lips, and Loki could hardly believe how much this game was wrecking his lover. 

But then, he wanted an agreement, before proceeding. It was only fair, after all. 

The question was, would Anthony even be able to give it? 

“Well, darling? Is that what you want?”

His poor lover, helpless and desperate already, shaking as he grasped at Loki’s shoulders, nails scrambling against the broad back as he tried to use it for leverage in order to get some friction against his poor cock. 

He would not succeed. The rope was sunk deep into the surrounding ice, even as it had formed a cradle to raise and support his hims and put him in the perfect position for Loki to ravish him comfortably. 

Let it be known that Loki knew how to take care of his lover. Rope binding was an  _ art. _

And Loki so enjoyed Anthony’s hapless struggles, the desperate helplessness of it all, the way the former mortal  _ relished _ in the constraint and the futility of the act. It was a most pleasant tableau, the picture of hedonism. 

_ “Please!” _

Well, It was not quite a ‘yes’. 

But Loki was a merciful God. He would take it as an agreement. 

_ This _ time. 

“You will be so good for me, won’t you?”

Pressing his hand to Anthony’s sternum, he  _ called.  _

The magic rose to do his bidding, shining through his lover’s skin in many twisting patterns that Loki  _ knew _ and recognized. They slithered over his love’s skin, dancing, twisting, spelling tales and blessings, magic and prophecies. 

This was the Norn’s blessing on their union, the conclusion of the tale. 

At any other time, Loki would be fascinated. He would surely spend many hours in the coming days, the coming  _ centuries,  _ reading the arrays on his love’s skin, searching it for hints and hidden messages. 

Already, he could see, clear as day, Anthony’s love and life spelled out before him, his boundless creativity, his undying affection for his Trickster God, the playfulness and the boundless need to create, to innovate, deep in his soul. He wondered if Anthony could see the same, spelled out on Loki’s own skin. They had bound themselves as equals; after all. 

But then, it seemed that the awakened magic had had an entirely different effect on his lover, his form twisting, begging, then crying out as his cock started pulsing, warm jets of white come spruting out of him as his hips tried jerking up, the pleasure unrelenting for as long as the green lights of magic sung on his skin. 

Loki watched, fascinated as the rapture took over his lover, tearing through him, bringing him to completion just by the call of his magic. 

Now, wasn’t that _ interesting? _

But then, Loki had  _ plans,  _ and it wouldn’t do to have the game cut short so soon. There could be some explorations as to this nifty ability of his another day. He was sure to greatly enjoy his reading time. 

It took but a thought to have the magic sinking deep instead, pooling inside Anthony’s flesh, around his groin, around his hole, relaxing, quieting, soothing,  _ lubricating. _

And if it just happened to tease, to make the warm flesh even more  _ responsive,  _ even more sensitive in the process, then it must simply be a… pleasant side effect, yes?

Gently brushing away Anthony’s tears, Loki waited until his lover caught his breath, until he opened his eyes once more with a semblance of coherence. 

His face was flushed, sweaty, his breaths ragged as though he’d run around the entirety of the Academy grounds, his limbs shaking as he came down from the rush. 

He was beautiful. 

And Loki would have him completely  _ wrecked  _ by the time he was done with him. 

“I want to take you. I want to have you around me, take my time to reach my climax and bring you over the edge once more. And then I want to plug you up, keep you open and filled up with my seed, ready for the next time I have need of you.”

Gently, tenderly, Loki kissed over the tears of bliss that had escaped him, his actions achingly soft, in contrast with the dark promises he was making. 

“I want to use you all night long, push you over the brink again and again until you can no longer  _ think,  _ no longer know anything but the feel of my cock inside you, of my seed filling you, of my arms around you. Until you think of nothing  _ but me.” _

Another bite tore a strangled whine from Anthony’s throat, as he hugged Loki even closer to himself, gasping, panting. 

“Would you like that?”

A wrecked gasp answered him, nails digging into his shoulder even as Anthony shook. 

Perhaps Anthony needed a nudge, something to help him out in this trying moment? After all, Loki would not want to do anything that his lover objected to. Was that not the purpose of this…  _ negotiation? _

Loki’s power layered over the words, imbuing them with the slightest hint of magic. Something intoxicating,  _ beguiling.  _

_ Answer me.  _

_ “What says you, my love?” _

His poor lover sobbed, his small cries growing ever more desperate as the magic caressed his already over sensitive skin, nudging carefully at a mind drunk on words and promises, prodding it back into the moment. 

Anthony gasped like a drowning man, chest arching into Loki’s hold, mind clearing even as the flood of arousal assaulted his senses. He spoke amidst moans, a mess of prayers and pleas, and amongst those, the assent Loki had been looking for. 

The smile that grew over his face could only be called  _ predatory. _

Loki rewarded his lover with a quick kiss before aligning his cock with Anthony’s twitching hole, and slowly, deliberately bearing down. 

The hole was tight, hot like a furnace and yet wet like melting ice. It squeezed him deliciously as he forced his way inside, pushing himself ever deeper inside his lover,  _ owning _ his prize in the most primal way he could. 

The ghost of the Hunter roared in his blood, relishing in the power he held over his prize, in  _ taking _ the just rewards of his hunt,  _ claiming his spoils.  _

He drove deeper in his wailing mate, over and over, ramming each time into his pleasure spot, relishing in his needy and tormented cries,  _ using  _ him,  _ wrecking him.  _

There was nothing sweeter than making his love walk the blissful edge between bliss and agony, watching him  _ break _ and beg for more. 

Loki gently grazed at his lover’s soft cock, feeling it twitch valiantly under his fingers, limp and sore from its first orgasm. 

Perhaps Loki could do something about that. He was quite sure Anthony would appreciate it, the way he squirmed under him, his hips jerking as much as they could within their bounds, his skin shivering and twitching at the slightest touch.

“I want to bite you. I want to lay my marks all over you, have you covered with the imprints of my teeth and see the lovebruises (“love bites” or “bruises”) blooming all over your skin as the proof of my claim. I want to have you, all of you, and I want you to never spend a day in your life without carrying one of those marks.  _ How would you like that, my love?” _

Anthony groaned, a low guttural sound that felt barely human. His hand buried itself in Loki’s hair pulling,  _ writhing. _

_ “Yes!” _

Loki’s eyes  _ glowed _ with jubilation, smile sharp with triumph, his teeth lengthening. 

Letting his lips caress along the length of Anthony’s shoulder, the thin skin of his collarbone, the firm flesh of his pectorals, the sweet and sensitive nubs of his nipples, Loki trailed nibbles and bites, slow suction and sharp stings. 

Anthony cried out with each one, back arching into his touch, cock hopelessly twitching despite having spent itself so soon. He was slowly hardening, but there was little he could do against biology. 

But Loki could. 

Casually calling up a few trickles of magic in Anthony’s blood to tease at the eager cock, Loki started thrusting harder, deeper, pounding away against the sensitive gland that turned Anthony into a desperate, wanton thing. 

“I will  _ ruin you,  _ my love, I will wreck you with so much pleasure, you will never seek any other touch but mine.” 

And indeed, Anthony’s member answered Loki’s call, swiftly hardening under his grasp, twitching, leaking into his fingers. 

But Loki was far from done. 

“I will sink into your blood until it can rise with nothing but the graze of my fingers, mark you with my claim until none can gaze upon you without knowing that you belong to me.” 

His hips kept pounding away, sinking into his mate’s flesh, hammering down until Anthony was but a babbling mess of pleas, his hands clumsy as the grasped onto him, taking hold of his antlers, scrabbling at his back. 

_ “You are mine,  _ Precious.” 

Loki knew he could spend forever fucking into his lover, relishing in the hot and wet vice that squeezed his cock so deliciously, in the squirming and clenching hole of his lifemate. 

There was nothing more satisfying than drinking in those cries of bliss and need, savoring the desperation and the willing submission of such a powerful soul. 

And with the moon dark and the stars bright, the magic thick in the air between them, the soul of the Hunter still howling through him, clamoring for blood, for flesh, for the complete surrender of his prey, there was little to convince him to stop. 

“And I am yours.” 

With a twist of his wrist and a powerful snap of the hips, Loki drove Anthony over the brink once more, savoring his broken cries, the way his name echoed through the ice chamber, the sputtering jets of seed splashing against his chest, the way his hole clenched so blissfully against his cock… 

And he kept pounding. 

All throughout his love’s orgasm, and beyond through his squirming discomfort until the need reawakened in his blood once more, until his cock became hard and leaking, aching with bliss and desperation, until his cries became pleas, became calls, and rapture took him again. 

And once more. 

Through it all, Loki kept thrusting, ramming into lover’s abused flesh, relentlessly, ruthlessly, taking and taking and  _ taking.  _

Never once did Anthony ask him to stop. Never once did he cry or complain or suffer through anything he did not enjoy fully. 

And Loki started talking again, expounding on his love for him, on his admiration for his cleverness, his stubbornness, his bravery,his everything. 

He kept praising him, kept calling him sweet words and blending in dark promises, his eyes never missing the way each word impacted his lover, the way his body seemed to melt and jolt in turn, to light up at every laud.

But when Anthony’s fourth orgasm crested, tearing through him with a sob as his worn flesh gave way once more under the Hunter’s unyielding will, Loki’s movements became faster, erratic, his breath becoming harder, deeper, shorter. 

And then, Loki gave one more thrust, burying himself deeply into his lover’s welcoming flesh, and came.

His seed spurted from him in a rush, filling up his lover as he released with a deep groan. 

Anthony was limp under him, a sated smile on his lips, eyes heavy with coming slumber. 

Loki would not let him rest just yet, though. 

Pulling out of him with a groan, Loki let his hands roam over the damp, hot skin of his exhausted love, calling forth restorative magic, seeking for any manner of ill and hurt that could plague him, soothing the soreness of his muscles, the aches in his limbs. 

The ropes were loosened carefully, freeing his love’s movements, though he doubted that Anthony would move of his own will for quite a while. 

He roused his lover gently, with a kiss and a word. Anthony’s groggy eyes glared up at him grumpily, mulish at being wakened from his well deserved rest, but Loki would not budge. 

He carefully brought a wooden cup to Anthony’s lips, and with a steady hand, offered him a few sips of broth. Slowly, drop by drop, Loki made sure that Anthony drank the whole of it, weathering good naturedly his quiet crankiness. 

Anthony grumbled as Loki laid him back down, his hands clumsily grabbing for him, but Loki was not quite done yet. 

Moving down Anthony’s body, Loki checked over his groin, methodically, looking for any trace of chafing or rawness, before feeling satisfied that the magic had indeed done its work in protecting the soft human flesh. 

Nonetheless, he coated his fingers with healing balm, and lathered it over the sensitive flesh, massaging it into the limp cock, then into the softened rim of Anthony’s pucker. 

Loki chuckled as it winked over his fingers, greedily trying to suck him back inside. He obliged, spreading the goop to the inner walls, feeling it mix with his semen. 

He hummed, pleased that it had barely leaked from his prey’s well-used hole. It was a primal sort of claim, an old magic that echoed through his bone and sang at the sight of a mate filled with his seed. 

He glanced up at his lover’s peaceful face, a mischievous grin taking over his features. 

He  _ did _ have a promise to keep, after all. 

The plug went in easily, Anthony’s hole loose and eager, the passage eased by the soothing cream and the smooth texture of the ice. 

It was thick, and probably quite heavy within his poor love, and perhaps a bit  _ cold,  _ especially within his fevered flesh, but then, he  _ had  _ asked for something he would feel, hadn’t he? 

Anyway, with Loki’s own magic running through his veins, the cold should no longer truly bother him. 

The low groan of protest he got in answer was particularly satisfying, along with the plaintive whine and exasperated chuckle. 

“You…  _ bastard.”  _

Loki’s answering smirk was particularly smug, even as he cradled his sweet prey close, bundling him against his chest. 

“I did promise. And you  _ did _ say yes. Was that not the point of this whole  _ negotiation  _ business?”

Anthony shivered and pressed closer, nuzzling Loki’s chest and nipping at a nipple in retaliation. It was conveniently in range, after all. 

How deliciously charming and intriguing. But Loki didn’t think that Anthony could truly follow through on that kind of game, not in his current state. 

He chuckled instead, petting through his love’s damp hair soothingly, placing a tender kiss on his brow. 

“Now, now. Don’t be like that. It is not nearly  _ that  _ cold. After all, this is not  _ regular  _ ice.”

Of course not. As though he’d let anything he could not intimately manipulate inside his mate when he was in this state? 

With the bloodlust still roiling through his veins, the possessiveness, the  _ hunger,  _ Loki wanted nothing more than to have Anthony entirely saturated with his essence, he wanted him to be  _ his _ in any and every way. 

And that meant, as much as he could, finding ways to make more of his essence seep through his love’s skin. 

He’d have made the plug out of pure magic if he hadn’t thought the reaction wouldn’t be a tad too much for his poor love. If just the magic sizzling on his skin brought him to an instant orgasm, what would a plug made of concentrated essence do when placed right against an erogenous zone? 

Yet another project to experiment with later. He was sure Anthony would enjoy it, however much he might curse him at the time. 

As it was, he’d found a way to diffuse the effect, to still let more of his magic soak into his blood, to tease his love, arouse him, and yet still let him have his well deserved rest. 

“This ice is made of my magic, the same that now runs through your veins. But it is still ice, and it will still melt, especially in the hot furnace of your body.”

Loki let one hand glide down his back, palming a warm buttock and teasing at the end of the plug, circling the taut rim of his hole as it hugged the ice close, clenching tight under his questing fingers. 

Anthony whined, hips shifting away from the tease and undulating slowly as the low embers of arousal gave a slow spark. 

His hole clenched once again around the too big plug, feeling its girth, the way his rim seemed to slide even more easily around it. 

Loki circled the base once more, his fingers spreading around the cool liquid that had already melted. 

Liquid magic. 

He smirked, hunger clear in his voice as he hugged his captive ever closer, letting his nails prick at the sensitive skin, before soothing it down. 

He should stop teasing his poor mate, now. Anthony would need his rest. 

The dark chuckle that left him was nothing less than a threat, the promise of delicious torments yet to come and more harrowing rapture yet. 

Anthony shuddered, burrowing into the arms of the very one who would make him suffer such sweet tortures. 

Loki would feel warm at the trust shown, at being a source of comfort, someone that his lover would seek, even after such an intense bout, and  _ he did.  _

But the hunger in his veins was all consuming still, his antlers still heavy upon his brow, the darkness of the Wild Hunt imbued in his flesh, the greed of a predator looking to devour his prey still coiled through his mind and magic. 

And so, bringing his lips to the sensitive shell of an ear, Loki couldn’t help making him one last promise before letting his mate fall into the oblivion of sleep, one last vow so that he would dream of entwined bodies and writhing limbs, heaving breaths and choked moans, Loki’s name on his lips following even unto slumber. 

“When it has melted entirely, when there is nothing left of it inside you,  _ I will take you again.”  _


	23. B-5 Kink Cunnilingus

Few rites were more sacred than bondings in their world, much less arcane rituals such as the one that Loki had performed. 

The magic had been strong, heavy and ancient as it rippled through the land, announcing far and wide the mutual claim. 

As such, they were granted a time in isolation, from new to full moon, in order for their bond to set, for them to learn each other and explore the new depth of their connection. 

Of course, the moon was significant. It often presided over marriages and bonds of many kinds. 

The New Moon also, while a night of darkness and danger, the domain of the Wild Hunt and its wraiths, it was also the most auspicious night for new beginnings. The seed for the new growth of the moon, the death before life can start once more. 

It was a circle, it was  _ balance,  _ and with each phase of the moon came its symbolism. 

And the entire half-cycle of the moon slowly fattening away its days until it became round and soft and bright was the most powerful and the most auspicious for the setting of a new bond. 

As such, it was only expected that the newly bonded couple would spend it together, a moment of respite away from the rest of the world, but also a way to bask in the magical energy that had been released, to soak in the energies of the universe and the bonding rite. 

Usually that meant a lot of sex. 

After the first few days, as the crescent moon appeared in the sky and started illuminating the night, Loki had felt the call of the Hunt receding back into his skin, leaving him still hungry, but much less predatory. 

And maybe Anthony kinda missed the antlers.

He had very much enjoyed Loki’s foray into that wild possessiveness, after all, but, in the grand scheme of things, he enjoyed Loki in all his forms. It never mattered to him, if his lover suddenly decided to sport raven feathers instead of hair, or if his skin suddenly turned the pale peach color of humanity. If his eyes were red or green, his skin marked or bare. With horns curled like rams, or sharp and many pronged like elks, or even no horns at all, he was still and always be  _ Loki. _

God of Change, God of Stories. Of Mischief and Freedom. 

And Anthony loved him, very much so. 

But that did not mean he would not give him some well earned payback. He would not be the lover of a creature such as Loki if he let such dreadful treatment go unpunished. Regardless of how much he’d enjoyed it. 

His enjoyment wasn’t the _ point.  _

Or rather, it was  _ exactly _ the point. 

Their pleasure, mutual, was always found in this game of give and take, in that eternal tug of war, where they each took control of their game, one after the other. 

Of course, it wasn’t really anything so structured as that, never truly a match where each had their turn and they calmly waited for their own. 

No. 

It was a war, a constant stream of battles where no one knew who would truly lead. It was uncertain, chaotic, unpredictable, and they would not have it any other way. 

Where else would they find something quite so exhilarating?

And now, it was Anthony’s turn. Or at least it would be, once his trap was sprung. 

He had come prepared, on that night not so long ago, where he’d thought to spend a romantic evening watching the stars with his lover, only to end up being chased through the tundra by hellhounds and wraiths, running through what almost seemed like the grand reenactment of an epic tale of love and conquest. 

It would figure that the God of Stories would get married through a theatre play, really. 

There was no such thing as overly dramatic, where the two of them were concerned. 

Which was exactly why Tony had acquired a very peculiar plant with quite  _ interesting _ effects. It had been most troublesome to find, and even moreso to do so without alerting his too clever lover, but obtain it he had, in the end. 

And no derailing or three days long delay would stop him from seeing how Loki would react to have such a wicked little thing inside of him. 

There was no such thing as too much  _ spice _ either in a relationship such as theirs. 

He was determined, clever and, most importantly,  _ resourceful.  _ Loki was just coming down from his magic high, the avatar that had possessed him now going back to its slumber, and that made Loki groggy and lazy, drunk on Anthony’s kisses. It made him vulnerable. 

And Anthony had every intention of taking advantage of it. 

Loki would thank him, really. 

Or perhaps not. 

In either case, he’d make him pay for it later on, and wasn’t  _ that _ a delicious thought? 

Loki jolted awake at the soft sound of a closing mechanism, but by that point, it was already much too late. 

He should have been expecting it, of course, and would probably be able to escape if he really wanted to—Anthony was improvising, after all—but that was not the point of the game. 

Loki was caught now, fair and square, and  _ it was Athony’s turn.  _

And, judging by the intrigued, if wary, gaze that Loki was sending him, his captive was not  _ that _ unwilling. 

He took a moment to observe the tableau Loki was making. Just looking, with a little satisfied smirk that he  _ knew _ would drive Loki mad, his countenance on the edge between nonchalance and hunger, he let the tension mount, let his lover stew a little. 

This was payback, after all. 

And, let it not be said that Loki was the only drama queen of the two. 

They matched each other well, after all. 

And perhaps Anthony thought that he did deserve that little moment of self congratulation. After all, the picture was rather fetching, Loki sprawled lazily on his back, but with his elbows bound together behind his back pushing his chest forward, staring him down imperiously, shameless of the way his legs were spread open, knees bent, exposing his genitals to Anthony’s greedy eyes. 

He was truly beautiful, all lean lines, a perfect blend of softness and angles, an androginous kind of handsomeness, all ready for the taking. 

And  _ Anthony’s.  _

The possessiveness was surprising to him. He’d spent his life feeling as though all he owned was only the work of others, besides his creations, which were a completely different sort of ownership. 

Loki was his own person, with his own accomplishments and his own life, and yet  _ he had chosen _ to be Anthony’s. 

And somehow, it made all the difference. 

Anthony let his eyes roam over the bare expanse of skin, and all the while his mind was marveling that it was  _ his, all his.  _

Those dusky pink nipples, those strong yet lithe legs, that defined yet smooth torso, that slowly hardening cock,the leaking folds just underneath, with a tiny rosebud clit hidden in its hood, that strong corded neck that was lifted so very imperiously,  _ all of it was his for the taking.  _

Because Loki was his bonded mate. Had chosen him, taken him as his, and given himself in turn. 

“I move the stars for no one”, he'd said. Even as the world around them had dissolved into the firmament itself, even as the sky had broken into so many shards of crystals and the world had stopped making sense, Loki had pledged himself to him in a way he would never do for anyone else. 

Anthony licked his lips. 

Where would he start? There was so much to do, so much to take, to taste. 

Of course, he knew. 

But the suspense was not only to his own benefit. 

His eyes glowed mischievously as he watched Loki getting more and more aroused  _ just _ from his intense staring. Just from being the sole center of Anthony’s attention. 

And Anthony was being observed in turn. He could feel the heavy stare drag over him, his barely clothed form, the way he was only clothed in his undershirt, his skin on display as it gaped open, his skin stained with the previous traces of their coupling, not all of it yet washed out. His own cock was already standing to attention, pride and anticipation making him eager, and maybe more than a bit reckless. 

Loki licked his lips, a sneaky, entrancing thing that sent a lustful shiver down his spine. 

It was heady, being watched with that much intensity, that much attraction. Having someone they admire look at them as though they were someone of worth. 

It was almost as heady as knowing they’d been caught in his trap and was now left at his mercy. 

Anthony did not plan on having any. 

The thrill of success was maybe making him reckless, but he’d been very careful in his designs, and Loki was well and truly  _ his captive.  _

“Devious of you to distract me with a kiss.”

Anthony grinned, not at all ashamed of having the type of distraction he’d resorted to in order to put Loki in fetters. 

“Mmmh, I must have misheard. You meant ‘clever’, didn’t you?”

Loki shook his head, amused, before relaxing back in the mound of pillows, at least as much as he could with his arms bound behind his back. 

Anthony wondered if he would still be as relaxed if he knew what Anthony had planned. 

The tiny seed felt like a brand in his pocket, sizzling against his mind, almost begging to be used. 

It was an Alf species, a plant that fed exclusively on sexual energies, and the seller had looked particularly devious when he’d explained its various applications. Of course Alfheim was a realm known for its particular expertise in sex magic, as well as its very free and experimental approaches to sexuality. 

And they just happened to have a little trick that worked with psychic energies. 

Wasn’t that just so  _ convenient?  _

Anthony prowled forward, leaning down to steal another kiss from his darling prisoner, if only to remove the mulish and arrogant look through sheer physicality and arousal. He could feel the half hard cock dragging against his belly as he hovered over Loki, the catch in his lover’s breath, the faint shudders under his palms. 

Kisses had never truly been about dominance between them. Instead they were  _ invitations. _ Sensual teases that hinted at dark intentions, or instead broadcasted affection, vulnerability, trust. 

This one was a fair bit of both, though the previous one, the one who’d turned Loki’s head so much he hadn’t noticed Anthony sneaking cuffs around his limbs,  _ that one _ had been all about love and affection, about the devotion of one who’d just pledged to spend the rest of their lives together. 

Admittedly that might be the reason Loki had called him devious. 

However, it had not been a lie either. 

Anthony had every intention of spending the rest of his life keeping Loki on his toes. 

Breaking off the kiss on a sigh, Anthony took a moment to enjoy the dazed glaze on Loki’s eyes, the contentment he could read on the slant of his brow, the reddened glaze of his lips. 

He saw those eyes—green, so green, he could not get over how mesmerizing that was—sharpen on him, suspicion growing in their depth. 

Let it not be said that his lover was not clever. 

Or perhaps it was his ‘mischief sense’ as he’d called it, now sufficiently awake to alert him when it had not earlier? 

Regardless, he had most probably been found out. Now was the time for the dramatic reveal. 

Leaning back, just enough to give them room to maneuver, Anthony took out the small pouch that contained the seed, before dangling it before Loki with a smirk. 

Judging from the way his eyes widened in shock, Loki  _ did _ know what it contained. 

A hint of wariness crept into Loki’s voice, though none of it showed through his composure. 

“And  _ what _ do you plan on doing with that, Precious?”

Anthony felt his smile grow teeth. 

“Why, my love, can you not guess?”

Green eyes glared back at him, utterly unimpressed. Anthony didn’t quite understand why, he was having great fun, after all. 

But then, Loki wasn’t often very amenable when put in this position. In fact, he did tend to be more defiant than not. 

Such a pity that he could not do much about it, with his limbs so restrained, was it not? 

Anthony shook his head, amused that, for all the lack of cooperation he was receiving, he still did not hear anything close to a denial, or a request to stop the game. 

It was as much of an assent for them as a signed invitation. 

“Why, sweetheart, I’m planning on teasing you to the brink of orgasm and keep you right there on the edge as I finger you open.” 

Anthony noted carefully how Loki shivered, the way his eyes dilated, his cock twitching at his words, low and gravelly as Anthony would make them. 

It seemed he wasn’t the only one to have a thing for carefully worded threats of dark pleasures to come.

“And then, I will plant this nifty little seed deep inside you while I lick up your greedy cock, and your cunt, and suckle on that shy little clit of yours.”

Loki’s eyes were frozen on him, a confused blend of arousal and apprehension echoing through their bond, something that felt like a fascinated sort of horror slowly creeping in. 

“And then I will keep teasing you, long beyond the reaches of your sanity, long beyond what you thought your body could take. I will keep my mouth on you and  _ eat you alive,  _ and all the while, this little thing will keep you in a place beyond rapture and beyond words.” 

Anthony licked his lower lip, slowly, sensually, biting it, looking at his lover from under his lashes. 

“Would you like that? Would you like being good for me, taking everything I give you, all the pleasure that you can bear and more, just to please me? To open up for me and break apart just because I ask you to?”

With a gentle caress against Loki’s cheek, he whispered the last nail to his lover’s coffin, the one thing that he  _ knew _ would get to his lover. 

“You can be  _ so good for me,  _ darling.”

Loki sent him a dirty look, well aware of Anthony’s games, and the way he played with Loki’s desires, using them to further his own ends. 

Anthony was entirely unapologetic. Loki not only did the same, but he’d also chased him through a reality bending labyrinth not three days before. With  _ wolves.  _

Now it was time for him to turn the tables. Loki would get a taste of his own medicine, and enjoy every second of the torment. 

Loki leaned in closer to him, almost brushing their lips together tantalizingly. 

“Do you really think that it’s going to be enough?”

Anthony blinked, surprised at the interruption. 

What game was Loki playing at? 

His bound lover was already sprawling back down, a cocky smirk on his lips, as though he wasn’t the one who was being threatened with indescribable pleasure to the point of being reduced to a begging, sobbing mess. 

Anthony eyed him suspiciously. One thing he’d learned very quickly with Loki as a lover was that the god always had a trick up his sleeve. 

It was usually a good thing to have on his side, but when Loki was the one chained up, it could prove rather… unpredictable. 

So it was with a cautious sort of trepidation that Anthony came forward, a hand gripping Loki’s hair as he crawled over him, eyes boring into each other. 

“What do you have in mind,  _ Trickster?” _

But Loki only laughed at the rough treatment, baring his throat as he glanced back at Anthony from behind hooded eyes, his cockiness never wavering. 

Why did Anthony feel as though his well crafted plan was getting wildly derailed? The longer he stared down at his lover, the more he felt the control slip from his fingers. 

It would not do. 

Leaning down to nibble at the sensitive skin of Loki’s throat, Anthony ressorted to cajoling, voice alluring as he spun his seduction, enticing,  _ beguiling. _

He’d always been very good at that game. 

“Come, now, my love. Won’t you let me put this lovely little thing in that sweet little hole of yours? Do you not want my mouth on you? Look at you, gorgeous and willing, all spread out for me. Won’t you let me  _ have a taste?” _

But Loki only laughed, if only a tad bit shakily. 

He was still under him, still bound and pliant, and yet Anthony  _ knew _ he was missing something. Loki might be naked, but he still had a trick up his sleeve, and he was just about to pull an ace out. 

“Of course, I will let you. But doesn’t that mean you have to do something for me in return? Come on love, sit back a little. Won’t you enjoy yourself as well?”

Anthony froze, suddenly aware of something cold and slippery at the edge of his entrance. Blunt.  _ Large.  _

_ Sneaky bastard.  _

“It’s only fair, after all.”

Loki looked back at him with a smug little smirk curling on his lips, an eyebrow raised in challenge. 

Anthony narrowed his eyes. 

It was a dare.  _ Of course  _ it was a dare. 

Neither of them could resist those. 

“There’s nothing  _ fair _ about this.” 

It was Anthony’s  _ turn,  _ he had caught his lover fair and square, prepared his games and his tricks, and while,  _ theoretically, _ Loki was allowed to retaliate,  _ this _ was  _ cheating.  _

Granted, cheating was allowed, and even encouraged at times, but— 

Anthony just  _ knew _ there was something more to this, another trick up Loki’s devious sleeves, and  _ not everything is what it seems.  _

But then, Loki looked back at him, eyes narrowed to crescents, silently laughing at him from his prone position. 

Anthony waited with trepidation. 

Those were the eyes of a man who had laid down his trap so well, so cleverly, that his prey would be walking right into it with their eyes wide open, knowingly dooming themselves in the process. 

Loki’s smile sharpened, hungry, teasing,  _ daring.  _

“Are you complaining?”

Of all the underhanded… 

Anthony was actually almost impressed. 

Of course, in theory, Anthony  _ could _ get away from the decidedly phallic shape nudging at his bottom. Of course he might spoil Loki’s fun and retain the upper hand, and Loki would probably sigh and concede. It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, but he  _ could.  _

But that would mean admitting defeat. That would mean backing down. 

And, really, it would also spoil the mood. 

Anthony glared. And, holding Loki’s gaze all the while, he pushed back against the icicle, groaning as he felt it slowly pass through his rim, spearing himself open and shivering as it radiated a faint aura of cold. 

Nowhere near the searing burn of true ice, though. 

Yet another magic thing. 

This boded well. 

Loki’s eyes glowed with satisfaction, his cock hard and straining on his belly, and Anthony could not wait to wipe that self-satisfied smirk, to curb that infuriating arrogance, if only for the length of this bout. Shuffling backward just enough to be in a position to do something about that only pushed the ice cock even deeper, just far enough to sit comfortably against his prostate. 

Clever bastard. 

But Anthony  _ would win this round,  _ if only through sheer bullheadedness. 

Though, if the measuring stick truly _ was _ stubbornness, it would be quite problematic. There was no end to the length those two would go in the face of a challenge. 

Hopefully, Anthony’s prior preparations would stack the game in his favor. 

But then, actions would certainly speak much louder than words in a situation such as this. 

Licking a long stripe along the length of Loki’s cock, Anthony smirked as he heard the low moan that escaped Loki’s mouth, something guttural and almost broken. 

It seemed as though their verbal foreplay had not left Loki indifferent, judging by the way his cock was already hard and leaking by the time Anthony had started working it. 

But he was only getting started. 

After the trick Loki had pulled, Anthony felt quite disinclined to go easy on him. Not that he had been from the beginning, but.  _ But.  _ Anthony wasn’t quite likely to start being honest with himself at the moment. 

Teasing Loki was only too easy. He knew his way around a cock quite well, after all. Licking at the tip, swallowing just a little around the head before moving down the shaft, mouthing at it, licking at the sides, suckling and pulling at the sensitive skin, and soon enough, Anthony had the trickster panting and twisting on the furs, hips jerking erratically with need, body writhing in hopes of getting the friction it was being denied. 

Tony did not plan on giving in quite so easily. 

While his mouth was busy, his hands were not idle either. Slowly caressing the soft skin of Loki’s inner thighs, Anthony focused on slowly raising Loki’s arousal, his sensitivity, gradually letting his skin awaken under his touch. 

Gently rubbing, then softly scratching, massaging, then lightly teasing, by that point Anthony knew very well the best and fastest way to drive his lover completely crazy. 

And, at that point, the moment he could feel those strong legs tremble under his fingers, the moment where Loki’s breathing became erratic, Tony let his hands reach higher, gently following the slope of his hips, gliding through the curves around his groin, and finally seeking the precious folds of Loki’s vulva. 

They were warm, moist, already sticky with Loki’s juices, and so very  _ responsive. _

Loki gasped at the simple touch, back arching, hips roiling, folds already twitching and gushing under Tony’s questing fingers, and the cock in Tony’s mouth started leaking, spicy precum that tasted like nothing else Tony had ever encountered. 

Tony pulled back, licking his lips, eyes glinting as he looked down at his poor lover. He’d only just started, and Loki was already a mess. 

Tony smirked as he let one hand caress Loki’s belly in a soothing motion, the other still teasing his folds with featherlight touches, fingers dipping in and out between the many nooks of Loki’s moist hole. 

Teasingly brushing a kiss at the base of Loki’s cock, taking a nibble there before soothing the small bruise with his tongue, Anthony slowly curled his fingers in, brushing them against the tender folds and crooking them inside, searching,  _ teasing.  _

Loki protested loudly against the intrusion, not in any significant way, not in any manner that actually meant  _ ‘stop’.  _

Instead he was growling, twisting, grunting and cursing out his names in a manner that told Anthony quite clearly that he was actually doing something the mage was enjoying greatly. 

Too bad he had no intention of remaining there for long. 

Loki’s juices were thick, syrupy, almost like honey. They also tasted of wildflowers, as incongruous as it seemed considering the vegetation of his birthland, smelled incredibly fragrant and were terribly  _ slippery.  _

They were also abundant, eagerly gushing out from his aroused cunt and easily coating up Anthony’s hand, which was rather perfect for what he had planned. 

Devious fingers glided down over Loki’s perineum, teasing, pressing gently, before arriving at the furled hole of Loki’s ass, and stopping there for a moment, an unspoken threat, a devious promise

Loki groaned, shuddering, body clenching up with the apprehension of what Anthony had in store, but he should know better than to think it would stop Tony 

He smirked, mouthing along the base of loki’s cock, suckling gently, leaving behind secret bruises that marked Loki as his just as much as the ones adorning his throat, all the while his fingers started circling the tight rim of his ass, gently teasing it out of its shyness. 

No, Anthony would not enter his lover by force, it was too easy. Instead, he’d wear him down, slowly, painstakingly assaulting his senses and unrelentingly teasing him, massaging and caressing him until he finally relaxed of his own volition, opening himself up under the gentle pressure of his fingers, even while knowing what Anthony had in store for him. 

Tony’s other hand kept both teasing and soothing his poor love, deviously rolling the hard little nub of Loki’s clit between a thumb and an index, patting his flank then scraping his nails down his ribs, along the soft flesh of an inner thigh, using the soft and callused pad of a finger to trace over the folds of his groin, the base of his cock. 

He  _ would _ drive his lover mad, long before the seed ever left its pouch. 

The hard shaft in his ass was still more than a little distracting, the way its rigid length restricted his movements, the incredible awareness of it the cold forced upon his mind, but seeing Loki so tormented, so wanton under his hands was too heady for him to let himself be distracted. 

And then, slowly but surely, with a gush of viscous fluid from Loki’s vulva dripping down the taut skin of his perineum and pooling over Anthony’s fingers, Loki’s hole finally  _ gave.  _

The furled hole winked around the tip of a finger, relaxing just enough to take a tip in, before winking back closed. Anthony grinned triumphantly against the deep red bruise he was mouthing on the inside of Loki’s thigh. 

Because with that first breach came the next, and the one after, each one a little deeper, spreading in the viscous juice of Loki’s arousal and slowly easing his way in, slowly driving Loki deeper into the haze of arousal and sensations until he forgot himself, forgot Anthony’s promises and plans, forgot his own counterthreat. 

This was  _ payback,  _ after all. 

And soon enough, Anthony had two fingers buried deep inside Loki’s ass, spreading around a wet mess of slick fluids, curling deep inside and reaching for the small bundle of nerves that never failed to drive Loki  _ mad. _

Seeing his limbs tremble and jerk, his entire body jolting and squirming as Anthony gently but purposefully teased that small gland was well worth the sudden drop in temperature from the ice-cock inside of his  _ own _ ass. 

Anthony shivered, limbs shaking as he found his focus suddenly diverted to the searing burn of cold that reached  _ so deep _ inside of him, the slickness of melting ice now a familiar torment, even if the artic chill was decidedly  _ not.  _

And yet, it was not nearly so bothersome as he’d expected, not nearly as painful or distracting as he’d expected. No, in fact it was  _ arousing.  _

He blamed Loki’s ice-magic now running through his veins. 

But then, it was most probably a sign that it was time for him to pull out  _ his _ trump card. 

Fumbling one handedly with the small pouch, Anthony barely managed to get it open, before pulling his fingers out with a lewd slurping sound and taking hold of the small, precious little thing. 

To think, there was such a fuss made about such a tiny thing. As it was, the seed was hardly bigger than a quarter. 

It would grow, of course. It  _ did _ feed on sexual energies, and already Anthony could feel it in his mind, eager and hungry for the feast Loki’s need presented, faintly buzzing at the taste it already had from the stickiness left on his fingers, pulsing with need, with  _ thirst. _

And Anthony would certainly offer it a most delicious feast. 

Swiftly, before Loki had the time to do more than offer a hazy protest at the loss of the fingers teasing him, Anthony had already pushed them back in, using the distraction to plant the tiny, shuddering bud, before pulling out just as quickly. 

Loki roared, hips lifting from the furs, body writhing and struggling as he tried to escape from the new stimulus. It would be in vain, of course. Now that it was so deep inside of him it would not come out until it had finished its growth cycle or unless Anthony removed it himself through a psychic command. 

And, unless Loki asked explicitly, he had no intention of doing so. 

Instead, he observed with not a little curiosity the way Loki trashed against his cuffs, the way his scream slowly tapered off and his hips started undulating with need and arousal, vulva gushing out more sticky fluid and cock looking impossibly hard and throbbing, and so  _ very close  _ to its orgasm. 

It would not come, Anthony knew. That was one of the side effects of the little grain he’d put inside him. Since it fed on sexual energy, on arousal,  _ on desperation, _ it would not serve it well for it to be over too soon. 

No, instead the need would rise and rise, unfulfilled arousal building up more and more until Loki was nothing but a broken mess, until he lost all coherence and became entirely consumed by need. 

Until the seed had gorged itself so much on it that simple desperation was no longer enough. 

Only then would Loki come. 

Anthony rather looked forward to it.

Beads of sweat pearled on Loki’s brow as he helplessly jerked against his bonds, his screams quietened but his breaths still labored, pants echoing loudly in the crystal cavern. 

It seemed as though his lover was adjusting quite well already. 

Perhaps Anthony would be  _ nice,  _ and help him along. 

Bowing back down, Anthony blew gently on the wet folds of Loki’s vulva, watching the way he shivered in answer, jerking and whining at the oh so soft stimulus, observing carefully the way Loki’s control held on by barely a thread, the way he seemed so very sensitive,  _ responsive,  _ so very, very close to breaking apart. 

He felt his smile widen, full of teeth. 

Sometimes, he wondered at his own cruelty, but then, he could still feel the frigid burn of the icicle spearing him open, the way it fed steady pulsed of magic through his blood as it slowly melted inside him and the way that magic heated his blood with the curling embers of arousal, and he suddenly did not feel quite so inclined to worry about that. 

Instead he settled down on all fours before the dripping genitalia—so exposed, so very  _ vulnerable— _ arching his back as his hips fucked themselves slowly against the ice-cock, almost of their own volition, and he pressed his mouth against the moist lips before him. 

Loki cried out, jerking away as much as his bonds could allow but with his legs so shackled he could hardly do anything to protect himself against the overwhelming assault. 

No, he could only  _ endure _ as Anthony lapped at him, suckling the lips in his mouth and nibbling, then digging deep inside him, collecting more of that life-giving nectar with his tongue, slurping the gushing substance, mouthing, nipping, swallowing him down,  _ devouring Loki alive.  _

All the while he could feel his lover trashing, crying out, tensing and trembling, body never quite deciding between jerking away from the torment he was inflicting upon him or pressing even closer, pushing himself up against Anthony’s face. 

Anthony felt triumph sweep through him, relishing in every moan and pleas falling from his love’s lips, basking in the helpless way he rocked his hips against his mouth, relishing in the luscious taste of the thick substance he was gulping down so eagerly. 

It was saturated in Loki’s own magic, he knew, and he could feel it pooling inside his belly, coursing through his veins, heightening his arousal, sharpening his senses. 

It was heady. He let himself enjoy the rush, the way Loki’s guttural groans echoed through his bones, the cloying smell of sex and magic ensnaring his senses and going straight to his cock. He was ravenous, lust only making him want to take more and more from his lover, he wanted to suck him dry, to  _ wreck him.  _

Loki’s skin was steaming in the cool air, his broken breaths letting puffs of steam escape in the night, his whines more and more desperate, sweat pearling over his limbs, gently rolling down from his shuddering flesh. 

He was feverish, almost half mad from denied arousal, from the sweltering burn of the seed slowly growing inside him, the way it connected with his magic and turned it to molten passion, the way it  _ burned  _ so sweetly inside of him, the way it grew, slowly but slowly pushing against his walls, stretching him open, pressing insistently against that deep pleasure spot. 

But it was not enough. 

_ How long would he hold against that assault on his senses? Would he actually call for a stop, or would he simply endure? Would he drown in that bliss?  _

Anthony laughed as the impressions from his lover came, filtering in through that devious little grain. Echoes of desperation and heat, of pleasure so rapturous it felt like a blissful sort of torture, of a haze of lust and denied need that made everything blur together until nothing existed but the  _ burn.  _

Well, now, that would not do. 

If his lover was too hot, perhaps he could help him out a little? 

He took the small nub of Loki’s clit in his mouth, nibbling and sucking on it as his fingers gently teased his folds, opening up his flesh, finding their way through and then crooking inside. 

Loki cried out, body tensing, clenching around his fingers, viscous fluid sloshing around his questing digits. 

His lover was certainly quite sensitive, his cunt all swelled up and needy, mucosa shivering and tingling with magic, his limbs quivering at the slightest purr, his body so very  _ responsive.  _

He was quite thankful to have had previous experience of the phenomenon, because Loki’s cunt reacted to arousal in a manner completely alien to the human women he’d previously encountered. 

Anthony hummed. That boded well for his plans. 

It was time to up the game. 

Palming a clever creation that he’d used long ago on a similarly sensitive Loki, Anthony slipped it straight through those moist lips and deep inside the hot cavern of his body. 

Loki howled, wailing, trashing about as the smooth shard of ice entered him, the cold as searing as the burn in his behind, his body battling against the clash of opposite sensations, his magic rippling from him, bursting from him in a cacophony of conflicting sensations. 

Anthony felt it crash against him, leaving him unharmed but desperate, the icicle inside him growing, thickening, hardening. It felt freezing, cuttingly glacial, and it burned through him in a frigid rush, even as more desire pulsed through his untouched cock. 

Anthony  _ laughed,  _ even as Loki wailed and cursed, he attached his lips to his trashing groin and sucked,  _ hard,  _ drinking his lover’s desperation, his need, his pleasure. 

He teased him more, mouthing and biting and pinching and caressing, feeling his stubble scratch the too sensitive skin of his puffy folds, letting his calloused fingers rub against Loki’s hungry cock, tease at his tender rim. 

All the while, Loki’s words had dissolved into a single long continuous moan, barely interspersed with small, frantic pants whenever Anthony gave a particularly hard suckle against the tiny nub of his clit, or when he hummed or groaned against the too sensitive flesh of his groin. 

Yes, Loki was well on his way to being wrecked already. 

Even as Anthony himself felt his mind grow hazy with lust, his mind drunk on a haze of magic and arousal, even as he started rocking between the ice-cock and the aphrodisiac honey of his lover’s cock, he could hear his love’s choked moans and guttural groans, the way they climbed with desperation then puttered off with a whine as the growing plant cut him from his orgasm, again and again. 

So he redoubled his efforts. At that point, he’d gotten caught in the same haze, in the same state of desperation, though he was admittedly more coherent.  _ Both _ their needs were mounting, the edge getting closer, the threshold of what they would be able to take getting steadily closer. 

In the meantime, the seed had gorged itself on Loki’s desperation, growing bigger and heavier inside of him until thin curious tendrils escaped his hole, attaching themselves to his rim and sucking on it. 

Loki’s hips jerked up, thighs quivering, breath hitching on a sob as he started calling out to Anthony, words barely coherent, voice broken into a whine. 

Anthony only redoubled his efforts, knowing that it was close to the end now, the Alf plant close to the end of its cycle, the small shard of ice almost entirely melted, Loki’s cock was red and pulsing, leaking desperately and his clit fattened with pulsing arousal.

But Loki didn’t know that, was probably not even coherent enough to think about it, perhaps not even familiar enough with Alf practices to know what exactly that seedling entailed. 

He was whimpering, hips shaking, his entire body quivering with the ruthless assault upon his senses, the unrelenting flood of pleasure drowning him, Anthony’s cruel mouth, the seed’s merciless burn. His bonds were ever unyielding, making it impossible to escape the inexorable rise of his need, even as it became unbearable, punishingly  _ rapturous.  _

And  _ still,  _ the seed, now plant, kept growing inside him, its root now large enough to make him feel the stretch, to make it seem as though he was  _ stuffed up to the brim,  _ branding him open, choking him up from the inside, and now assailing him from outside as well. 

Low pulses of electric pleasure coursed through him, coming from deep inside him, from his pleasure spot, from his rim, from his cunt, his clit, his throbbing cock, shockwaves of pleasure that threatened to shatter him to pieces, and yet that release was always denied to him, always held just that much out of reach. 

Loki keened, legs tensing against the onslaught of pleasure washing over him, sobbing breaths harsh and loud in the cave, the lewd sounds of Anthony’s slurping and mouthing at his cunt the only counterpoint to his own cries of desperation. 

His panting dissolved into a low desperate whine, need mingling with distress, torment turning to bliss, and rapture still escaping him. 

Anthony breathed out amidst the haze of lust and magic, feeling the moist flesh of his lover against his lips, his nose pressed to Loki’s groin, his ass speared open with frigid ice instead of searing lava, his limbs free, his cock untouched. 

He chuckled at the psychic bleed he’d felt from his love, at having felt a taste of his lover’s mind once more, as though sexual desperation was the only moment where Loki’s shields weakened enough for him to be in reach. 

But then, it was probably the seed’s effect. It  _ did _ connect to its bearer’s psyche. And apparently enabled Anthony to do the same. 

He nuzzled Loki’s clit, deeply amused and fond, feeling Loki’s answering jerks of harrowing pleasure. He relished in the chance to hear not only his love’s mind but also the fruits of his labors, to taste the utterly wrecked state Loki was now in.  _ Oh,  _ how he enjoyed feeling the sheer helplessness of his love’s need, the blend of torment and bliss, the abandon and the desperation. 

Because  _ he _ had been the one to put Loki in that state, to make him lose control so entirely, to bring him to that very brink of madness, and  _ Loki had let him.  _ And still would,  _ always would.  _

Though he rather looked forward to his trickster’s retaliation, to the way he would rain a hellfire of retribution upon him. 

That was half the fun.

But now, their fun was coming to an end, thin teasing tendrils growing up and starting their teasing trek up Loki’s perineum, small suckers attaching themselves on the way, leaving his poor love gasping and whimpering with need, even as they release his ability to  _ come. _

Juices started gushing out again, sluggish and thick, as Loki’s cunt clenched up with his first orgasm. Loki’s scream was a quiet thing, voice wrecked, half drowned in a sob as the peak did not come with the expected release. 

No, because his arousal did not wane, and as Anthony lapped up eagerly at the honeyed nectar, drinking it in with relish, he could already feel the folds of Loki’s vulva contracting once more with a second orgasm, just as intense and unforgiving as the first. 

Anthony crooked a finger inside Loki’s cunt, spreading his lips open to better reach at the syrupy juices, digging his tongue inside and hooking his fingers  _ just so,  _ pressing down right on the spot that made Loki howl desperately, his walls clenching around his tongue, sizzling at him with magic as even more of the thick substance flowed out of him. 

He gulped it all in, sucking him dry, ever as yet more of his essence came pouring out at each tease of his fingers, each time they curved a little more, jabbed a little harder, pressing deep just as Anthony suckled and lapped and  _ drank. _

And Loki kept howling and thrashing about, orgasm after orgasm crashing over him in continuous waves, unrelenting, unstoppable, and yet they offered no respite, no true release. 

Anthony hummed at his trickster’s plight, enjoying the way even such a small sound managed to make him quake and jolt, hips jerking and writhing with both oversensitivity and pleasure, the onset of yet another peak shuddering through him. 

Anthony’s other hand caressed over Loki’s thigh, soothing over the flesh of his quivering belly before grasping at his erect and throbbing cock. Already there was a curling vine attached to it, climbing over its swollen shaft. 

It didn’t take much. 

With barely a few twists of his wrist, Anthony felt Loki’s cock jolt in his hand, pulsing once, twice, before it erupted with thick ropes of semen. 

Loki’s back arched as he let out a silent scream, body held taut as everything inside him clenched up, finally releasing every ounce of pent up energy, 

Magic burst forth around them, Loki’s control wrecked, the intensity of the orgasm tearing through him rippling from him in overwhelming waves, shattering the cave around them and crashing through Anthony. It pulsed through him with an unearthly kind of pleasure, fierce and implacable as it triggered his own orgasm. 

Anthony cried out as his own release broke, leaving him feeling shaken and empty, limbs trembling with the aftershocks. 

When he got his bearings enough to look back at his lover, Loki was slumped down, limp, spent, completely worn out and pliant. His need had finally been allowed to be fulfilled, thirst quenched, magic soothed from its frantic hunt for salvation. 

He was a mess. 

A beautiful, debauched and sated mess. 

Anthony worked to remove the cuffs from him, gently checking on the skin and the blood flow, even though Loki kept telling him that, as a jotun he was hardy enough that it was not something he needed to worry about. 

Anthony would  _ always _ check, because it was part of the trust Loki offered him, part of caring, of being there for each other. 

The Alf plant had slipped from Loki already, now a plump and healthy shrub, or were they vines? It was blooming, obviously more than sated enough from Loki’s lust and pleasure. Anthony slipped it back into its pouch. 

It would not take long for new seeds to mature from it, and they would quite certainly make a reappearance in their games. Especially since Loki had so enjoyed his experience with one of those. 

“Don’t you dare.”

Anthony felt his smirk widen as he glanced down at Loki’s bleary-eyed glare, before he simply curled himself over his lover and presented him with the gourd. 

His throat must be quite sore for his voice to be so rough. 

Watching his lover slowly seep on the restorative water, feeling in his limbs the pleasant soreness of a good fucking and the faint buzz of residual magic coursing through his veins, Anthony relaxed against his love’s side. 

He blithely ignored more unspoken threats at the thought of keeping those precious seeds and simply basked in the warmth of his lover, the depth of their breaths, the hum of Loki’s magic echoing under both their skins.

This, sharing those quiet moments, partaking in those intense bouts, trying new things and basking in the old, it was good. 

Living with Loki,  _ loving him,  _ it was like one of those thrill seeker’s games, a ride through the predator-filled jungles, a freefall in the deep ice-canyons, before catching themself on one of those giant gryffin like birds and soaring through the sky. 

Anthony relished in every single one of those moments, in the quiet as much as the loud, their fights and their make-up sex, their excited moments of creation, comparing their fields of work and somehow managing to combine them, their heavy talks and light-hearted jokes.  _ Everything.  _

So, when Loki had offered him  _ forever, _ when he’d shown him that crystal. 

It had not even been a question. 

Fairy-tales were often dark and disturbing, moralistic and sordid, but sometimes they told the story of a poor maiden falling in love with a magical prince and being swept away to his magical kingdom. 

Loki had not yet told him there was a forbidden room within his castle, nor that there was a deep dark secret he should never share with anyone. 

Perhaps he had already reached his happy ending. Perhaps the moral of the story had come and gone, unnoticed by its protagonists. 

Anthony would not mind that. There had been enough darkness in his life. 

Now, their bond shone with light, glowing brightly between them, a steady golden pulse linking them together, twisting through their bodies in an intricate netting of swirling patterns. 

And, as the moon was slowly waxing, as it brought by more and more light each night, so too did their bond shine brighter, denser, its complex weave getting more defined each days, more vibrant, more established. 

They still had time in their bonding moon, after all, until the land was as bright as day, diffuse moonlight reflecting on soft snow in a sparkling blanket of pastel colors. 

Anthony would enjoy seeing what their bond would become by then, what  _ they _ would become in the bright path that was now open before them. 

Now was time to rest. 


	24. N-2 I didn't let you into my life by accident

Revenge, as the saying went, was a dish best served cold. 

As it happened, on Jotunheim, there were lots of cold dishes, and beings that lived for milenia certainly tended to have the patience to last for eons. 

Granted, it had not taken nearly that long for Anthony to start letting down his guard. After all, when he was not being a devious and tricksy little rascal, Loki was truly a cuddly lover, a hopeless romantic and a silvertongue charmer. 

Even more so since sensation had returned to his skin. Loki often acted as though he’d been starved for contact for centuries, and it always hurt Anthony’s heart a little too close whenever he figured that it was actually the case. So whenever his love came close, seeking the warmth of his human skin, the pressure of his hugs or the softness of his caresses, the calluses of his hands, Anthony gave without counting, doing all he could to quench the terrible yearning in his love’s psyche. 

And if it soothed his own aches, his own need for closeness and intimacy, his own hunger for a touch he’d been forced to deny himself, due to gifts instead of curses, and yet similarly isolated in consequence, then it needn’t be an issue either. 

They had found each other, after all. 

All things considered, it was easy to forget the fiendish satisfaction Loki took in turning the tables, the cleverness and the roguery. Not that Anthony truly ever  _ forgot.  _ After all, it was a part of Loki that he’d fallen hopelessly in love with, long before he’d ever even guessed at the sweetness hidden behind that cold exterior. 

Regardless, that did not change his current situation. 

He  _ had _ been expecting something like that to happen, sooner or later, had maybe even somehow looked forward to it, the mingled dread and eagerness having brought him to distraction more than once. 

In the end, Loki had still managed to take him by surprise, catching him as he left from his final examination, dragging him in a secluded path behind the building and sending him to sleep with a spell. 

Anthony had never felt more frustrated with himself at making such an amateur mistake. But then, Loki was the only being he was not able to predict, nor read, even with their bond so bright and vibrant, even with the depth of the magic connecting them. 

And now, he found himself tied spread eagle on what certainly felt and looked like an altar, crumbling ruins barely in sight from where he was bound, the open sky twinkling merily up at him, mocking him with those too familiar constellations. 

This was Midgard. 

And Anthony had a sneaky suspicion of  _ whose _ altar he was tied to. 

The vague exasperation he felt was soon eclipsed by trepidation, and the stirring embers of arousal that started to make his cock swell. 

He was bare, and while the hard stone was covered by a silky-soft fur in order to protect his skin from the harshness of granite, the rest of his flesh felt the bite of the night wind sweeping over him, raising goosebumps in their wake. 

He doubted he would stay cold for long. 

Already, he could feel shadows coalescing around them, some ribbons of light sweeping around him, weaving themselves over the broken walls in a magical lattice-work, like aurora borealis tamed, the northern lights bent to the will of his bonded. 

Anthony breathed in, shivering at the sight, the sheer beauty that he was privileged enough to be able to see. Not everyone could see magic the way he did, not everyone could witness the awe-inspiring mastery Loki had with magic, the sheer prowess in weaving power into reality, the artistry in every curl of each spell, in the evenness of the weave, the harmony of his energies. 

He was always amazed by the display, always reverent each time he was witness to what exactly it was that made Loki the God of Magic. 

It was one of the many aspects of his psychic abilities he’d slowly grown to be grateful for. 

Green flames started dancing around him, swirling, leaping around the great stone columns, circling him faster and faster. 

Anthony’s breath caught, anticipation and adrenaline making his blood pound in his ears. 

He did not know what manner of ritual Loki was using him for  _ this time,  _ but it certainly seemed like Loki had had much too much fun planning the scene. 

Perhaps he should be called the God of Drama, instead. 

It was working, though. Anthony was entirely entranced, eyes wide as he watched the otherworldly display, wonder almost erasing entirely his residual nervousness. 

Almost. 

He did not allow himself to forget that  _ this was Loki’s revenge.  _

And, as much as Anthony had enjoyed taking his own payback, he did not doubt that Loki would relish in doing the very same. 

The low chuckles that echoed around him, seamlessly blending with the twinkling of wind chimes and bell-like laughter of what sounded like sprites certainly seemed to support the idea. 

Anthony shivered, jolting as he felt phantom fingers drag over the skin of his belly, down the vulnerable crook of his elbow, pressing lightly over the edge of his jaw until he tilted his face upward. 

Loki’s grinning face greeted him, eyes dancing with green fire, twisting patterns of magic and old lore etching themselves over his skin before flickering off, strange shadows and colorful lights playing over his features in mesmerizing ways. 

Anthony could only breathe, shallow, puffs that barely served their purpose, as awe overcame him. 

Rarely did he feel the sheer power emanating from him, an imposing, intimidating thing that could so very easily crush him. 

Rarely had Anthony looked at Loki and thought,  _ ‘this is a God.’ _

_ ‘MY God.’  _

There was little else that Tony was able to think of at the moment. He felt the almost uncontrollable urge to prostrate himself, to simply offer everything of himself to the God who owned his soul, to just lay there and let him carve out his heart if it was what Loki truly wished. 

There was no worry left in his mind, no more apprehension, he felt incredibly peaceful, an overwhelming feeling of safety and love cradling his psyche. 

And then Loki bent down, sharp smile revealing pointy teeth and a ravenous hunger as he eyed his captive sacrifice, the no-longer-mortal laid there for his pleasure. 

At his non-existent mercy. 

Anthony shivered with desire, back arching in an unconscious invitation as Loki looked over him, gaze contemplative, assessing. 

He could feel himself throb under those eyes, hardening, writhing with the desire to  _ please,  _ to be good, to be found  _ worthy _ of this divine being’s attention and approval. 

Yet another hidden facet to his lover, and Anthony found himself just as enamored with it as with each and every other. 

_ ‘Fear Me’,  _ he’d asked. 

_ ‘Do as I say.’ _

At this point, Loki could ask for anything at all, and Anthony would give it. He would give him the very moon if he even asked. 

And that thrill deep within his belly, those many colorful butterflies that fluttered through his veins, that low strum of sheer  _ awe,  _ Anthony had never felt such a thing for anyone before _. _

But this was still his lover, the one he’d seen tormented at his hands, the one he’d run from as he was being hunted through the Jotnar wilderness, the most complex and fascinating being he’d ever met. 

Anthony would not offer his devotion and worship to anyone less. 

Loki’s eyes glowed with power, blazing with an echo of Anthony’s thoughts, power saturating the air around them, flaring with the strength of Anthony’s adoration, sizzling with the energy of their shared love and trust. 

Anthony could not breathe anymore, he was but a speck amongst a tapestry of stars, just a leaf caught in the gale, and yet Loki was carefully protecting him from the onslaught that was buffeting him, holding him close and safe in the cradle of his power. 

He was laid out, bound and exposed in that altar, bare and vulnerable in the eye of the storm, and yet he knew, not even a single spark would touch him. Even as the inferno raged around the two of them, even as green fire seethed and spat out streams of glowing ashes, sizzling and bursting and sweeping around them in great arcs, Anthony had never been safer.

A glimpse at Loki’s devious smirk made him reconsider. 

Safe from the firestorm, perhaps, but certainly not from what Loki had in store for him. 

Anthony squirmed, suddenly very aware that, no matter how godly and otherworldly he seemed at the moment, it would certainly not stop him from enacting his revenge, quite the contrary. 

Torn between agitation and lust, Anthony whined at his God, helpless before his might and yet still eager, still wanton, and so very enamored. 

He felt so very small. So eager to please. 

And, as he looked up earnestly in Loki’s vibrant eyes, as he bared his neck in supplication, a wordless plea and an offering all at once, he felt the magic around them  _ sing.  _ The blazes settled down, almost purring with pleasure at Antony’s show of willing submission. 

Loki’s smile gentled, just a hint, enough to show Anthony a glimpse of his more affectionate side, though it was edged with the same cruelty he’d displayed the last time his blood had burned with the call of the Old Ways. 

A tender caress on his cheek had Anthony’s eyes flutter close, his body relaxing on the hard slab of stone, his senses sharpening now that the sparkling display of light and magic was muted from him. 

He could feel the soft tickle of fur against his back, the warm breeze, the gentle thrill of power teasing him, just on the surface of his skin. 

Anthony shuddered, remembering the intense reaction he’d had the last time Loki had infused magic into him, calling forth the dormant seed of his shared power from his blood. It had wrecked through him, tearing him apart with indescribable bliss, shattering him in the span of a breath. 

He could hear Loki chuckling against his ear, the sound a dark and seductive, overlaid with eons of power and magic. 

It spoke of promises unseen, dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, and Anthony knew, right then, that whatever was in store for him at the moment was of a cruelty yet unmatched. 

It would be a trial like none he’d gone through before, and Loki would exact his revenge in full, leaving no inch of him untouched by the ravages he would wreak upon him. 

His skin prickled, his breath coming short. The anticipation was twisting inside him, his limbs tense with both eagerness and dread, and each time Loki touched him, each delicate swipe of his fingers over his exposed flesh felt like a brand, searing yet soothing at once. 

Anthony could no longer make sense of what was happening, there were too many hands touching him, massaging his flesh, caressing, testing, rubbing all over him. Slowly, he started melting into those hands, nerves slowly dissolving under those insistent fondling, the delicious aches of tension being kneaded out of his muscles, one at a time. 

Loose and pliant under those phantom hands, Anthony started almost purring with the pleasant warmth and haziness that came from the precise and exacting rub down, the way Loki manipulated his docile form, slowly but inexorably wearing down every last speck of resistance from him. 

Anthony let out a guttural groan, inhibitions torn from him with each pass of those phantom hands, mouth parted as more small cries escaped his mouth, lips trembling as those hands swept over his hardened cock. 

It started gently stroking his aching shaft, teasingly,  _ tauntingly, _ while another hand slid along his inner thigh, tickling at his balls, handling them, taking them in the crook of its incorporeal palm and squeezing gently, rolling them,  _ petting them.  _

Anthony squirmed, gasping, panting, arousal slowly growing in his belly even as his uncooperative body stayed limp and pliant under Loki’s mischievous handling. 

Not that it truly mattered. Tied up as he was, there was hardly any chance for Anthony to truly resist Loki, or to escape from his tender ministrations. 

No, he was there, laid out on his altar like a buffet, an offering left there at his disposal, existing just for Loki’s pleasure. 

A sacrifice to please his God. 

Anthony wanted nothing more, just to please and be pleasing, to be  _ good,  _ and receive his God’s blessing. 

And Loki seemed very pleased, from the way he hummed at him, hands almost reverent as they caressed his skin, the husky voice whispering praises and promises in his ear.

“You’re being so good to me, love, so pliant, so responsive. And that’s very good, because I intend to make a  _ thorough _ use of you tonight.”

He basked in it, letting himself relish in those dark encouragements, rough chuckles and endearments, drowning himself in the praise, just floating through the sensations. 

“You see, I have long thought about our previous games. I have remembered every twitch and gasp that you felt under my hands, and every one that you’ve inflicted upon me.”

Anthony could hear the hungry smile in Loki’s voice. He felt too intoxicated to worry, though he knew he should. 

A finger started gently circling the sensitive skin around his hole, slowly closing in on the tight pucker, teasing at it, pushing slightly just to see if it would give. It felt slick, tingling, ripples of pleasure echoing through his veins and coiling into the pool of arousal in his belly. 

Anthony shivered, gasping as it slipped inside him, swiftly, before slipping back outside and returning to teasing at his rim. 

“And, you know what I figured,  _ precious?” _

The finger slipped back inside, deeper, slicking the way in and swirling around. 

A strangled sound escaped Anthony’s throat, even as he clung to Loki’s words, to his soothing voice, to his unspoken threats. It became his lifeline, his anchor, the only thing that felt real anymore as he floated amongst a sea of disjointed sensations, too many hands manipulating at the same time, fondling, teasing. 

“There were quite a few things I’ve discovered, with you at my mercy. Things that I grew  _ curious _ about, things that I’ve been wanting to  _ explore _ further.”

The colors were still swirling even when he’d stopped watching them, magic saturated the temple, filling his lungs with every breath he took, sizzling over his skin, just outside, not yet seeping in. 

It tasted of a wild and untamable kind of joy, a fiendish hunger, a dark relish in Anthony’s precarious situation. 

It tasted of Loki’s lust. 

Anthony gulped it in greedily, his breaths short, heart pounding even as he remained so incredibly calm. 

Loki’s many hands felt good on him, soothing, teasing, and Anthony wanted nothing more than to let them do as they willed. 

He was Loki’s. 

And Loki’s voice weaving it’s beautiful and poisonous web of words in his ear made him feel helplessly  _ owned _ in a way that transcended anything he’d ever felt before, a live wire charged with desire and awe that went much beyond his current predicament. 

“You are so very inspiring, my love, so beautifully  _ responsive. So good for me.”  _

His cock was hard and leaking on his belly, so very close, and yet, it felt almost unimportant. 

He was being  _ good, _ and somehow this felt better than anything he’d ever done before. 

A gentle hand patted his flank, brushing over his ribs, suddenly making him conscious of the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the way it stuttered with his gasps, trembled with the intensity of his feelings. 

He was aware because it was Loki’s will that he be. 

“I had been wanting to study some of your reactions, do some experiments, but I had not quite figured out  _ how _ to do so without entirely  _ breaking you.”  _

Two fingers crooked inside Anthony’s hole, teasing at the bundle of nerves that never failed to turn him into a writhing mess. He gasped, panting, limbs trembling, twitching helplessly into his bonds. 

His eyes were wide yet unseeing. When had Loki slipped the blindfold on? 

“And then, my darling, my brilliant love, you just happened to put the solution in my lap. Almost literally.”

Loki gently crooned in his ears, words of endearment and praise, gentle approval that somehow felt like a delicious trap, an adoring jibe. 

It felt like a beautiful threat, but Anthony’s mind could not process it, could hardly think beyond the sweet warmth of Loki’s presence, his approval, his love. 

His ass was slick and open, welcoming eagerly Loki’s fingers when they slipped back inside, nestling a small bead deep inside him. 

A bead? 

“Truly a wonderful and intriguing property of those nifty little seedlings, the way they stop you from being able to reach your release, no matter how much your body craves it. Exactly what I had need of.”

Anthony’s eyes snapped open on a scream as the seed started searing through him, pleasure coursing through his veins, hot and thick as melting steel, sluggishly radiating from the seed planted deep inside him. 

His voice was unrestrained, gasps and helpless cries falling unimpeded from his lips as his body adjusted to the intruder, writhing and trembling at the onslaught. 

“Sshhh, my love, don’t fret. You’re doing so very well, you’re so good for me.” 

Loki’s hands soothed him, rubbing over him, gentling him until he relaxed into their touch, sobbing as Loki hushed him, praising him softly, encouraging and proud. 

“This is but the beginning, my darling, but you’ll endure it all for me, won’t you?”

Loki’s voice was a low, seductive purr, and Anthony was helpless to agree, unable and unwilling to resist against the overwhelming desire to do  _ good,  _ to  _ be _ good and rise up to Loki’s expectations. 

To make him  _ proud. _

“Such a good pet. Did you know, love, that whenever I call on our bond, your skin  _ lights up?” _

As he spoke, Anthony felt his blood heating,  _ igniting  _ with Loki’s dormant magic as it answered his God’s call. Pleasure tore through him, rapture beyond thought, beyond words, drowning him in a sea of bliss that felt too searing, too devastating _ , too much.  _

Anthony forgot how to breathe, how to think. He was screaming, yet did not realize it, was writhing, even without conscious control over his body, back bowing, hips jerking erratically.

The seed inside him responded to the onslaught  _ punishingly,  _ a single point of blistering sensation, beyond pain or pleasure. 

The edge of rapture beyond kenning, a place where delight flirted with agony. 

Loki did not let up with the torment, a blissfully freezing fingertip tracing nonsensical patterns over his sizzling skin, unperturbed by his desperate gasps beyond the gentle stream of soothing words that Anthony clung to. 

“You’re doing so well, my love. So very well. You’re so good to me, sweetheart, so brave.”

And then, his reprieve came. Loki’s hand pressed to his sternum lifted from his skin, gradually letting the roiling magic in Anthony’s blood settle down, gradually returning to its dormant state. 

He sobbed in relief, his voice hoarse 

Anthony’s cock was throbbing with desperation, his hole pulsing in time with his racing heart, the seed inside him a brand against his throbbing prostate. 

He  _ ached. _

But he did so at Loki’s request, for His pleasure. He suffered because it pleased his God to see his torment, he begged because his God wanted to hear his pleas, he wanted because his God  _ made him _ want, and he was denied because it was Loki’s will that release be refused to him. 

There was nothing in Anthony’s world but Loki, nothing but His words, His will,  _ His hands.  _

He was nothing but his God’s creature, subject to his whims, and helpless in his adoration. 

It was bliss. 

Even as the excruciating pulse of arousal started boiling through him once more, even as he screamed and screamed, body clenching, twisting, writhing against his unyielding fetters, even as the seed inside him started growing, thickening, crushing his prostate, stretching his hole, filling him with searing heat, even then. 

His mind was at peace, the incredible serenity one found when they knew they were exactly at the right place, that whatever they were doing was  _ right.  _

Loki’s hand was carding through his hair, petting him,  _ soothing him,  _ even as praises kept flowing from his lips like holy blessings. 

“You are so good to me, so right. You respond to me so well, you yield to me so  _ perfectly.  _ Did you notice, I wonder?”

His voice was full of gentle awe, a quiet sort of adoration aimed at the mortal suffering with such abandon on his altar, reverence for the gift of trust, the absolute submission offered to him so freely. 

Anthony heard it all from his haze of lust and desperation, and reveled in it, glowing at Loki’s satisfaction, brimming with joy at the care and tenderness bestowed upon him. 

“I did not. It took me the longest time to figure it out. It should have been obvious.”

Once more the pulse of magic rippled through him, his skin ignited with absolute bliss, rapture so very close and yet unreachable. It  _ burned, _ and Anthony sobbed, back arching, head thrown back in an inhuman howl. 

His ass was sore, clamping down helplessly around the too big root, then recoiling at the blistering pleasure it milked from it, before clenching once more at the rippling waves of need he was trapped into, again and again. 

His walls felt stretched to their limits, his prostate pulsing with agonized pleasure, arousal pulsing through his nerves and pooling at his throbbing cock. 

He was feverish, skin sizzling with magic and heat, eyes rolling back as sweat beaded from his forehead, soothing drops pearling from him. 

A gentle touch smoothed away his matted hair, a blissfully freezing caress coursing over his skin, tracing yet more patterns, leaving behind yet more trails of blistering relief. 

Anthony started breathing again, short, desperate panting that he gulped in like a man dying of thirst, small cries that sounded lewd and frantic, a man just on the edge of release. 

But release would not come, he knew. It would come at  _ Loki’s  _ pleasure, as  _ He _ willed it and not a second before. 

“It would seem, precious, that I did not let you into my life by accident.”

A soundless scream tore from Anthony’s throat as a cruel hand grasped his hungry cock, his whole body clenched tight, as it started stroking it over, squeezing, rubbing at it, teasing him closer and closer to an unreachable edge. 

He was trembling, tight and edged with tension, breath held as he just endured Loki’s touch, bore through the torment and just  _ felt.  _

He was drowning in pure sensation, the pleasure so overwhelming it had become meaningless, his God’s hands both a balm and a trial, his every breath a struggle. 

“Because you, my dear,  _ you are  _ **_mine._ ** _ ”  _

Anthony shivevered, gasping at the absolute possessiveness in Loki’s words, the ravenous desire that was barely concealed, the dark triumph that was implied. 

Loki was not simply speaking of their bond. There was nothing surprising, nothing  _ new _ about the ritual they’d performed not too long ago. They had deliberately woven their souls together and yes, Anthony was his, of course he was, just as Loki belonged to him in turn. 

This wasn’t what this was about. 

The way Loki caressed his skin with untold reverence, the way he poured a ravenous desperation in his kiss, the tentatively  _ acquisitive _ edge of his magic, it felt  _ different.  _

_ Raw.  _

Anthony fell limp, his body melting under that dominative grasp, under that ownership claim. 

It felt  _ right  _ in a way few things ever matched. 

The pleasure was still surging through him, wrecking him to pieces, wave after wave crashing through him in what amounted to rapturous agony, but it felt secondary. 

“Your soul is mine, love. Do you know what that means?  _ My worshiper,  _ my priest. Would you offer yourself to me? Will you accept my claim?”

Anthony wanted nothing more. 

_ ‘Yours’,  _ his soul seemed to chant, ‘yours, yours, yours, yes,  _ please,  _ take me, claim me,  _ own me, yoursyoursyours.’ _

His blood pulsed with the rhythm of this chant, his heart echoing the beat of ancestral drums, a deep, strumming pulse that vibrated through his bones. 

He was breathless with how much he  _ yearned _ for this, how deeply he felt himself  _ aching,  _ coveting that precious link, that priceless connection, he wanted it, wanted nothing more. 

His voice was muted, throat tight, lungs burning, but his mind was  _ loud,  _ screaming, howling, a chant that felt as old as humanity itself, a pledge, a vow. 

It felt right, intimate, even as Loki’s own magic reached back to him, thin tendrils of light taking hold of Anthony’s intent, polishing it, giving it definition and stability. 

It fueled its power until the entire temple echoed with the tune of his faith, the many voices of their mingling magics booming with his vow as it swirled around them, shaking the very stones with the strength of his devotion, his love, his  _ yearning.  _

The firestorm of his pleasure only served to fan the flames of this magic, his suffering the sacrifice he laid before his god, a humble offering, a proof of his submission, of his absolute  _ devotion.  _

He was immolating himself on his God’s altar, beyond pain or pleasure, beyond rapture and agony, beyond need or desire. 

There was nothing beyond his God, his vow, his will, the gentle croon of his praises echoing in his ear. 

There were quiet encouragements as he let himself shatter to pieces, knowing it pleased his God, trusting absolutely in the fact that He would catch him, would piece him back together with all the tenderness he needed. 

The world broke apart for a moment, a blur of magic and rapture, devotion and the absolute safety of an unbreakable connection settling into place. 

Colors swirled into the night, infinite and absolute, the gentle lilt of ages old hymns and the steady beat of an endless prayer, the words strangely familiar and inconsequent at the same time. 

He was floating, bliss and magic coursing through him, but Anthony could only think of Loki, his God, his anchor. 

He could feel His hands on him, caressing him with infinite gentleness, humming with coiled power. He could sense His pleasure, His satisfaction, His absolute  _ delight.  _

He could feel His claim on him, sizzling like a brand on his soul, pulsing over his skin. 

He felt strangely empty, but he could not quite figure out why. 

Loki’s voice was a steadying melody, strumming through him with a strange sort of gravitas, though he could hardly make sense of the words spoken. They felt good, like the bone deep joy one felt at having done something  _ right.  _

His God was happy with him. 

He was taking care of him, His hands tender and careful as they went over his body, His hold steady and patient as he made him drink a clear and fragrant brew. 

Anthony felt strangely detached still, blissed out. His body felt almost foreign, loose-limbed and somehow clumsy, as though it was not quite answering to him properly. 

He felt settled, the deep thrum of his soul anchored down to his bones, and yet still not quite aware of what was happening around him as he clung to his lover. 

His hands were grasping at Loki as though his body would float away at the first gust of wind if he did not keep himself anchored. He shivered, pressing closer, seeking the warmth and safety of Loki’s hold. 

Loki hushed him softly, taking hold of his hands and laying them back down, pressing a soft kiss upon his brow. 

Anthony sighed. 

His eyelids were so heavy. He felt so very peaceful, so absurdly  _ right.  _

Like some loose, unanchored part of him had finally found where it belonged. 

And, as he felt strong arms cradle him tenderly in an embrace, a stray thought came back to him before the blankness of sleep finally took him over.

Divine retribution could be rather pleasant, when it came from your lover.

He was so glad that his God liked snuggling.


	25. N-3 Free Square : meet the parents (BLACKOUT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The final installment of my longest fic to date, the epilogue to conclude the tale!  
> What a ride, and how fun is it that we finally got through this!  
> I'm sorry that I haven't quite answered comments lately, please know that I read and enjoyed all of them. (I will get to it eventually >.>;;;)

Laufey King had long wanted to meet the man who’d so turned his precious son’s head. The one who’d broken the curse when Laufey had almost given up finding a cure. 

The Midgardian, the no-more mortal. 

The one who’d let his Loki embrace his role as God of Stories. 

There were many things Laufey was grateful to this man for. 

Few that he would ever admit to out loud, however. 

The first time Loki had come to him seeking an embrace, the gales had howled with his turmoil, great glaciers cracking apart with the strength of his heartbreak. Because sometimes, the ice needs to break to let the warmth flow again, scars reopening for the wound to heal in truth. 

Laufey had never truly made peace with his son’s curse. 

What peace could there have been? 

What a fool he was, an impotent idiot, a lame warrior, who’d let his most precious bean, his tiniest, most vulnerable, most beloved babe in reach of a poisonous snake. 

What a terrible mother, an impulsive half-wit, to not tear this tyrant apart one limb at a time until he willingly removed the curse himself, if only for the right to a final rest, to a deathly release.

And yet, he knew. He _knew_ that letting that old fool live, even for a single second more would have only brought more pain to his babe, would have only been more of a risk. 

Odin was too slippery, too canny, too _devious._ A poisonous wretch, a blight upon their world. 

But it was hard to remind himself of such when he saw his child’s suffering, when he saw each of every one of those unnecessary struggles, of those pains and hurts that came because of Laufey’s own failure. 

His greatest regret, his most shameful mistake. 

What he would not give to have been able to come just a few minutes faster? 

To never have needed to see his son gradually lose contact with his own feelings? 

To see his friends turn their back on him, his smiles become scarcer, his skin colder, his affection quieter. 

To feel his son’s beautiful and wild magic suffer as well, struggling to compensate the burden of the curse, to heal the toll his cold-heart took as it gave its strength to do the work of two, the way it compensated for the places where his perceptions were muted, where his flesh was weaker. 

To be a silent witness to those rare and intimate moments where his precious child, his prideful little mage just _broke,_ his composure crumbling under the weight of people’s expectations, his own need to prove himself, to break away from the narrative they’d woven about him, the sad tales they’d ascribed to him. His tiny God of Freedom struggling against the roles they’d created for him. 

Loki never knew how much he’d watched. Never would know how close he’d been, though he could not openly support him without making him appear weak. Never knew how much each one of his tears broke him. 

Of course he had done his best to be _there,_ always welcoming to his little prince’s affections, always there to hear his concern or offer his aid, whether as counsel or as acts, or even just comfort. 

It had never been enough. 

Laufey _knew that._

He’d seen how Loki had been worn, little by little, a great mountain being eroded by the billions of tiny specks, small stabs gouging ever deeper until cracks started to show. 

Because as strong, as _incredible_ as his son was, he still had to face a war on two fronts. 

Both of Laufey’s hearts had broken when he’d seen his small face frozen with a muted sort of horror, the strange dissociation of a warrior walking through a field of death etched on his innocent features. He’d known, of course he’d known just then that his son’s warmth-heart had beat its last. 

He’d wanted to take him in his arms and never let go, he’d hoped, yearned, raged at the stars and cursed everyone. 

All his efforts were in vain. Everything he attempted, every lead he followed… 

It was of no use. 

Helplessness was the bitterest poison he’d ever had to taste, along with shame. 

He had done his best to hide it from his clever child, but Loki was too smart, too perceptive. 

In the end, their relationship had become strained, Loki avoiding him as a way to spare him from more pain, Laufey trying to reach out and feeling so very clumsy about it. Guilt was a heavy burden to bear, one that made communication unwieldy.

His Queen was much better at feelings than he. 

Laufey never stopped watching, never stopped helping, in any small way he could. But he’d mostly accepted Loki’s demands for space, his self imposed isolation, the wounds he’d inflicted upon himself. 

It hurt him, each time he watched his son reeking of healing magic, each time he watched him standing apart, or even mingling among the masses without touching anyone. 

Let no one call the King of Jotunheim an idiot. 

That curse had taken so much from them all. Too much.

And then, one day, his son had crossed over the realm, seeking him all the way across the frozen wastes to the remote villages Laufey was visiting. 

Loki had come to him, looked him straight in the eye, tiny but fierce and proud, and strangely, heartbreakingly hesitant. It was the first time he had laid eyes directly on his son in centuries, the first time Loki had seeked him willingly since his warm-heart stopped beating. 

He had thrown his arms around him in a desperate embrace, holding him close, nuzzling himself close. He’d held him like a man starved, like a jotun clinging to a melting ice plate in the middle of the Great Sea. Melted into his embrace, crumpling and shivering like a warmed-skinned coming away from an ice bath and curling around the fire. 

And Laufey held him back just as hard. 

If he’d felt wet trails of tears melt through the ice layer on his skin, he would never tell. 

In the privacy of his own mind, he would admit that his own eyes had wept like the great torrents as they flowed down the ice mountains, sobs wracking through him as his warm-heart cracked him open. 

His baby’s curse was lifted. His sweet one was free. 

And Laufey hadn’t even _known._

So, yes. Laufey was grateful, _infinitely grateful_ to this tiny slip of a mortal man. He’d been hungry for information, speculative, _cautious._

What manner of man did it take to break as complex a curse as the one that had stumped the greatest minds of the realms for close to a millennia? 

And what had _he_ done that Laufey had not? 

Loki was understandably guarded with the information he’d offered up. He knew his mother well, after all, and he’d obviously figured that the first thing he would do would be closer to an inquisition than a 'tea-party', as the midgardians of Britania appeared to be fond of organizing for social gatherings. 

He’d always been a hunter at heart. 

And so he’d bided his time, and watched _closer._

The King might not have much of a say on his eldest’s actions anymore, but that did not mean he would not do his utmost to protect his young. 

If Loki’s love did not appear to be an entirely wholesome being, if he used Loki’s need and vulnerability against him, took advantage of his generosity...

Gathering intel was awfully easy when one had an entire realm’s worth of spy networks at their disposal, after all. 

Even against a man as careful as his Crown Prince had grown to be, even when stalking the beloved of a God of Magic and Stories, it did not take long before Laufey was informed of everything there was to know about the mortal Lord of the Stark House, last scion of his family and burdened with a gift of psychic magic so strong it almost destroyed him. Would have, if not for his genius intellect. 

He was, admittedly, an interesting character. 

Laufey had been greatly amused to hear of his way to extract retribution over the people who had wronged him. 

He’d also found himself strangely relieved to know that Loki was apparently entirely immune against his abilities. His son might know how to shield himself from psychic attacks, but when confronted with one with such power, there was little that could actually counter the insidious influence of a telepath with ill intent. Or even a clever empath with enough access to his mark. 

No, there was little to disapprove of, when it came to that midgardian. Nothing to base any argument for a rejection of a potential suit, beyond of course his obvious mortality. 

And then the ripples of a bond had coursed through the land, the ringing of bells and the war drums of the land’s magic singing to whoever had enough magic to listen, rejoicing and celebrating the bond of the Crown Prince and his formerly-mortal love. 

With the blessings of the land, of the moon and the norns, the power of the God of Stories had elevated the mortal to godhood and tied his soul to Loki’s for all of eternity. 

Laufey had not been surprised. 

He had however felt terribly amused. 

How long would his obstinate boy keep his lover from him? And how dare he bond him before Laufey had even met him? 

What a terrible little icicle boy. No manners that one. 

Norns, but Laufey had not felt so playful in _ages._

He felt as though the weight of the world had been removed from his shoulders, his magic slowly waking from a millennia old slumber and teasingly lapping at his fingertips. 

If his tiny boy refused to come to him of his own will, then clearly that meant that Laufey would have to go to him himself. 

He had played at being king for so long, now. It would seem people had been forgetting that, at his heart, _Laufey was a hunter._

A slow smile grew over his face, muscles pulling with the long forgotten expression, limbs loosening with the thrill of adrenaline. 

He would learn.

It was his mother’s job to teach him after all. 

Loki was a wily thing, well protected, careful and unpredictable, but Laufey had experience on his side, along with the patience of glaciers. 

It did not take overlong before he found a pattern to his wards, and a chink to his armors. 

It took even less to lay a trap and catch himself two squirming little scamps in a glowing net of impervious magic.

Cradling them within his palm, Laufey smiled at the two tiny ones, as much a baring of teeth as a welcoming gesture. 

“My son. I believe you owe me some introductions.”

Loki looked mulish, the troublesome boy. He had never been good at admitting defeat, stubborn ice chip that he was, but Laufey was well prepared. There would be no opening in his snare, no exit to this cradle until he was good and ready to let them go. 

The young Anthony Stark, on his end, looked fairly cowed, which was understandable considering that he was probably quite unused to beings of Laufey’s scale. Humans did not grow to be much taller than Loki had, as he understood it. What a strange world Midgard must be. 

_“Mother!”_

Laufey had missed that tone, the plaintive voice of a tiny one when their parents were being their embarrassing overly affectionate selves. It was difficult to fluster that stubborn frostling of his, he had an incredible aplomb for one so little. 

He smiled, more genuinely happy than he could remember himself being in ages. Teasing his son was always a thrill, and seeing the warmth bloom on his cheeks, his lines lighting up with flakes of agitated magic, was even rarer. 

Adorable chip.

“Why, child, is it not a mother’s duty to meet his son’s mate? Perhaps even to give their blessing to a bond?”

Poor Loki looked to be floundering, looking around as though the crook of Laufey’s palm could possibly hold the answers to his plight. There was none, he _had,_ after all, been quite _rude._

Still, it was quite satisfying to see The Silvertongue grasping for words for once. 

Deciding to let him have a moment to get his bearings, and curious to see _how_ his unruly boy would talk himself out of his current predicament, Laufey turned to the warm-skinned one, baring his teeth in a challenging smile. 

“You must be Anthony Stark. My son has been incredibly tight-lipped about you, human. What luck to meet on this day!”

To his credit, the tiny man recovered his wits quite quickly, showing a smile that seemed as predatory as any jotun. 

“Indeed, Laufey-King. This is quite a fortuitous meeting. After all, we had absolutely been planning on coming to visit you after my graduation, but we thought it only right to make use of the opportunity to call on you sooner. Apologies for the lack of previous notice.”

Laufey found himself surprisingly impressed with his son’s paramour. He certainly showed some aplomb and repartee. 

The jotun king did not know many people who were able to trade quips with him, especially on a first meeting. He knew that he was intimidating, certainly it was a tool he often used to cow troublesome councilmen, especially when they thought it wise to throw their weight around for their own gain, or started talks of war. 

But this small man seemed entirely unfazed, speaking to him as though they were equals, as though Laufey could not squash him under his thumb within a blink. 

He could see why his son liked him. 

“Oh, but this is no trouble, of course. In fact, it was quite the pleasant surprise to have come across the two of you.” 

And while he was exchanging pleasantries with his son’s mate, Loki was getting his bearings, after having finally given up on sneakily probing his trap for potential escape routes. 

What an unruly little iceflake he’d raised. Slippery and devious. Laufey had taught him well. 

He was quite proud of the jotun his young one had become, but Loki still had a lot to learn. He would not escape so easily this day. 

Not until Laufey was so inclined, at least. 

But then, his chip had always been a stubborn one. 

Loki smiled, his gait loose and casual as he wrapped himself around his lover in a way that seemed brazenly careless, but was actually the most efficient and strategically sound way of keeping them both protected and ready to escape at the smallest opportunity. 

Laufey smiled back, knowing, _mocking._

His son was still a frostling, after all. It would be a while before he would be able to pull the ice over his eyes. 

Interestingly enough, the midgardian relaxed into Loki’s hold, deflating as though there was nothing to worry about any longer. 

Laufey narrowed his eyes, considering the two. 

When Loki had needed to work on his spells, the midgardian had created a distraction. Whenever Laufey had thought to tease him some more, the former mortal had made himself _interesting,_ had played his games and made himself a challenge. And when Loki had concluded his investigation, he had seamlessly passed the hand back to him. 

This showed promise. The two were seamlessly cooperating under pressure, relying on each other, on their strength, their partner’s, using their familiarity with each other to tackle an obstacle bigger than them both. 

Laufey smiled, teeth bared with pleasure. 

It seemed that Loki had found himself a good mate. One who trusted him, relied on him, and made himself reliable in turn. 

From there on, their meeting was eye opening to Laufey. 

They always seemed to take care to pick up on the conversation whenever the other started to falter, orbiting each other when they weren’t simply wrapped up in each other. 

None of this felt rehearsed, none was even the slightest bit out of sync. 

He did not think the boys even knew what they were doing. The way they watched each other’s back, supported each other, appreciated each other, the way they found their strength in the faith their mate had in them, the way they rise to the challenge. 

They watched each other with trust and affection, with the protectiveness of family. With the admiration and mutual awe that Laufey recognized as the very same he watched Farbauti with. 

It was this, more than anything else that made Laufey smile, something old and angry finally coming to rest in his cold heart, something wounded and worried finally healing inside his warm heart. 

Loki had found himself a good mate, one who valued him and found worth in his character, someone who understood him. 

A true partner, an accomplice in the small tricks of life and the big heist of fate. A true match, the same way he and his Queen were. 

No matter what, Loki would always have someone by his side, an ally that would bear what burden he could not, watch for threats he would be blind to. 

One day this midgardian would be Loki’s Queen. 

His son was no longer alone. He was no longer prey to a snake’s curse, had moved out of the reach of the one eyed butcher. 

He would live _, thrive._

This thought gave Laufey the peace he had lost on a blood-soaked day millennia ago, when an old tyrant had spoken of his son with such covetous poison. 

He would never forget the terrible stillness that had come over him, dread so overpowering he still felt its echoes. 

In creatures like jotnar elders, cracks ran deep. Fault lines that threatened to shatter the whole, treacherous not only against enemies but allies also. 

But now, Laufey could heal, he could finally rest easy.

Only _now,_ cradling in his palm his tiny rebellious icicle while flyting with his new kin, ages after the last hatchet had been buried, eons after the peace treaty had been signed and the headless corpse of the aesir king returned to its homeland, after so many had even forgotten what war even _was, only now_ did Laufey-King finally feel that peace had come. 

There was a lot to do, celebrating his son’s union, the curse’s unraveling. Perhaps pay a visit to Loki’s academy. 

He would have to release his sons. He had found what he wanted, after all, and more besides. But he would not do so just yet, he wanted to feel those three heartbeats pulsing with magic against his wards for a bit longer. 

Perhaps he would, _after_ he had his fun teasing his small frostling son and his tiny warm skinned mate. What _did_ midgardians do when they met their child’s partner? Wasn’t there something about disclosing humorous stories of childhood embarrassments? 

An odd custom certainly, but shared laughter went a long way to ease relations and make a new member of the family feel welcome.

And Laufey planned to spend quite a while getting to know that clever man. That extraordinary soul, one who’d ensnared his Trickster and unraveled his curse. 

The Peace Bringer and the Trickster King, they would rule well when Laufey-King finally decided to step down. 

Yes, Laufey had quite a lot to be grateful to this man for. 

That did not mean he would not enjoy teasing his boys. 

That was a mother’s job, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the tale ends!  
> Obviously, Tony will come back to London after his graduation, and Loki will come with, under the pretext of a diplomatic visit. Tony has quite a few affairs to settle, after all, people to see and to enjoy while they still live, a lab to go back to and move to his rooms in Loki's home. The trip back and forth has become much easier now that he has a Skywalker partner.  
> Natasha looks knowing when he comes visit her, Clint is just happy to see him back, and so much happier than before he left, less scared of any touch, less wary of people around him. More connected, more present.  
> Pepper is overjoyed. She'd found a new employment while he'd been gone, and gotten betrothed. Tony is happy for her.  
> Jarvis is still there, and follows him to Jotunheim as soon as he gets the chance. There's an old recipe, a mysterious magic that lets him remain with Tony for as long as the young lord will live, and Jarvis refuses to leave his newly immortal charge alone, not for so many milenia.  
> Somehow, the Lady Widow does not seem to age nearly as fast as she would be supposed to, and as long as Clint follows her, he remains the same. So, for centuries to come, Tony and Loki wander the realms and somehow crosses the path of their old friends, watching them blend wherever they go and sometimes joining them, enjoying life and seeking secrets.  
> Life was good.  
> Peace reigned.  
> Happiness was as simple as that.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you thought!  
> I hope you enjoyed :3


End file.
